


Illuminated

by purplejabberwocky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, time-travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 76,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplejabberwocky/pseuds/purplejabberwocky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abandoned by the Leviathan, wounded and desperate, Castiel attempts to be somewhere safe--and finds himself in 1987. Run-away from Heaven, lonely and wandering, Gabriel longs for somewhere like a home--and finds a wayward brother from 2011.</p><p>Castiel needs guidance. Gabriel needs an anchor. Neither of them are prepared for what that means, and the choices they make will influence the breaking of Armageddon's storm.</p><p>Castiel, Gabriel, full pre-series cast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part one: prologue

# Part one

_Suddenly my eyes are open_

__

 

The voices rang through him: whispering, thundering, cajoling, gleeful—all echoes and overlays and so loud that Castiel’s voice was lost to the cacophony.

He screamed. There were no chains, no flames, no ice—nothing but the whisper of voices and the feel of souls, dirty and slick like oil on water. They crowded him; every touch made him recoil, but he couldn’t keep them away. 

All he could hear were their voices.

 _“Cas is … mmm … he’s gone. He’s_ dead _. We run the show now.”_

One of them laughed and then so did all the rest, scornful and tittering. There were so many of them. So many, and he was only one. His vessel couldn’t possibly be big enough for this.

He was drowning. Drowning in ways only an angel could. His Grace was smothered, flickering, and he curled in on himself to protect what remained—of himself and Jimmy both. Some of the souls still laughed, but they were the insane ones, the ones that didn’t care that they filled a mortal body to bursting. Castiel couldn’t even reach the edges of that body anymore.

He didn’t dare try.

The murmurs grew hungry, urgent, seeking something that could hold them better than an angel’s hollowed shell. They bunched together but moved restlessly, so close that everything prickled and hurt and was grimy. Grimy like dozens of unwashed souls kept in one place.

Something shocked them, something cool and cleansing, and when the souls reached out there were no barriers. They clamored for the freedom, shunting him this way and that in their eagerness to escape the confinement.

Castiel felt the water close over his head, and then with a dizzying rush every soul had abandoned him all at once. In surprise he choked on the water and his limbs thrashed. He felt every break, the erratic heartbeat, the holes in his organs that left them failing. The angel pulled at his Grace to try and stitch his body together, spreading his tattered wings and wishing himself somewhere _safe_.

__

The hot chocolate in this diner sucked, Gabriel decided while he watched his quarry out of the corner of his eye. Well, _quarries_ : the hypocritical girl who went off at her boyfriend for drunken sex with someone other than her and the boyfriend’s sister who’d been seeing said girl for three months.

For a moment he debated whether he’d let them off the hook in exchange for a free show before deciding that wouldn’t set a good precedence. (Besides, they weren’t _that_ good-looking.)

With a grimace Gabriel lowered the cup and snapped his fingers, and then took an experimental sip now the hot chocolate was actually _hot_ and _chocolaty_.

The tables rattled with sudden thunder and someone squeaked in surprise. Gabriel looked up and out the window to see clouds gathering. That wasn’t normal. It had been a while since he’d eavesdropped on his brothers and sisters, but he cast out his mind and felt for nearby Grace—just in case someone had got it into their heads to come looking for him again.

He heard shock and fear, anger and shouts— _‘CASTIEL!’_

And what he _felt_ was nothing less than an abrupt, blanketing wave of Grace across the sky, rolling in all directions. In only a few moments the source had been all but obscured. The thunder subsided and the gathering clouds began to drift again, but slowly.

Quietly Gabriel put down his cup, his human eyes still riveted on the sky. That wasn’t any ordinary Falling. That was the Fall of someone who intended to hide their tracks. Either that or Castiel was ridiculously out of control as it happened, which was possible if he was being attacked at the time. Even those two concepts strung together aroused incredulity within Gabriel’s own mind— _Castiel_ , Fallen? It was just lucky he’d managed to catch the direction in which the angel had plummeted.

A moment later Gabriel’s seat was empty.

__

Joni was barking. With a grumble Bobby snatched up his shotgun and made for a window, peering out into the yard. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t the sodden heap on the hard ground only a dozen or so feet away from the porch, and with a blink the hunter moved to the door.

He shoved it open with his foot, lifting his weapon first to one side and then the other to make sure it wasn’t a kind of trap; then, still glancing around, he stepped down off the porch. First thing he did was let Joni off the chain. The dog bounded toward the lump on the ground, intermittently whining and snarling but mostly just sniffing the object.

Bobby decided that made it safe enough to approach and did so, his eyes trained on his target. It was a man, he had to admit after only a few paces: a man dressed in a ragged and blood-stained business suit. Carefully the hunter crouched and rolled the stranger over, and then swore under his breath.

The man was soaked to the bone but wasn’t even shivering, and the dark rivulets down his face spoke of blood-loss so heavy that even a dunking couldn’t wash it away. He was dark-haired with a five o’clock shadow, pale as ash. He didn’t stir an inch while Bobby searched him for injuries and ID.

There weren’t any. For a moment Bobby thought he couldn’t find a pulse, either, but after a few seconds the hunter felt it against his fingers, thready and uneven and so light that Bobby doubted whether it mattered if there were paramedics there in the yard with him.

“Stay,” he ordered Joni anyway, jogging into the house to call an ambulance and leave his shotgun behind before returning to the man with a blanket and the first-aid kit. The ambulance would take a while, but in the meantime Bobby made the poor bastard as comfortable as he could, even while he wondered just how the stranger had appeared there without leaving even a scuff of dirt or trail of droplets to indicate his passage.


	2. Once, I rose above the noise and confusion

Bobby stood at the door to the John Doe’s room, scowling. It was more a scowl of thought than anything, but it was still a scowl. It had been ten days and the man who’d appeared in his backyard hadn’t woken up yet. He looked pathetic and oddly vulnerable, lying in the hospital bed with tubes and needles sticking out of him; Bobby had been surprised when the doctor estimated his age to be early to mid-thirties. He looked younger.

He was human, anyway; that was a relief. Not that it had stopped Bobby from sitting outside the hospital for the first couple of nights, just in case he had to run in and rescue someone from a monster after all. Least there was a public phone just outside—not that he expected anyone to know anything about monsters that appeared people, soaking wet and unconscious, out of nowhere.

Blood loss, the attending doctor had told him, looking baffled as to how the man could have suffered blood-loss without having an open wound on him. Not even any internal bleeding. Sure, the guy’s insides had been bruised and raw, his ribs broken, as if he’d undergone a serious pummeling, but there hadn’t been any corresponding bruises on the outside. If anything, it had seemed as if the ribs had been broken _outward_.

Which was how Bobby knew that something supernatural was going on. Which was why Bobby was now moving into the room to sit at the man’s bedside so he could, once again, do an examination for supernatural nasties the doctors wouldn’t know to see.

The hunter was nearly halfway through his inspection and in the process for swabbing for sulfur when he heard the sound of voices approaching and quickly yanked his hands back. He shoved the swab in his pocket and rose, coming around the curtains just as Doctor Schwartz and a stranger entered.

“Hi, Bobby,” Schwartz greeted him with a quick smile, but turned just as quickly to the stranger. “This is Bobby Singer. He’s a local, been coming to visit nearly every day since Mr Doe was found on his property.”

Bobby wasn’t really listening to Schwartz’s explanation in favor of studying the newcomer, tense and ready for … he wasn’t quite sure what. The man was of average height with brown hair and nondescript features—the most striking thing about him was his amber eyes. He regarded Bobby just the same way Bobby was regarding him, except with a grin lurking on the corners of his mouth which threatened to explode into a smirk at any moment.

“Hiya Bobby,” said the man, his tone echoing Schwartz’s except with a mocking undertone.

“This is Sylvester Wilton, Bobby,” Schwartz said. “He’s looking for his brother and hoped our John Doe might be it.”

Bobby’s spine prickled, and he wasn’t sure how well he managed to keep his unease off his face. His hand was still in his pocket, but it closed around the flask of holy water instead of the swab. “Ain’t that something,” he managed to say with an insincere smile, not taking his eyes off ‘Sylvester’.

The man’s grin widened and he stepped around Bobby with a breezy wave. Either he was a plain cocky bastard or he really wasn’t human. Bobby wasn’t sure which one he hoped it would be; at least if he wasn’t human the hunter would have an excuse to kick his ass for being a dick. (Paranoid it might have been to assume a supernatural origin within ten seconds, but given how Doe had appeared in Singer Salvage Bobby wasn’t taking chances about suddenly-appearing relations.)

The hunter trailed after Schwartz and Sylvester as they moved around the curtains, the edges of the flask digging into his palm. With his other hand he reached for the silver knife he had hidden in his belt. To Bobby’s surprise, Sylvester’s steps slowed as the bed’s occupant came into view. All the mirth faded from his expression before he crossed the floor past Schwartz.

“Yeah, it’s him,” he said quietly without moving his gaze, lifting a hand to brush Doe’s hair back. A moment later he murmured down at the comatose man, “What the hell did you _do_ , bro?”

Bobby stared. Well, that certainly wasn’t what he was expecting. Sure, the smarter monsters could and did pass as human, but if Bobby wasn’t mistaken that was genuine concern there. Then again, monsters had to be pretty damned good actors after the decades and sometimes centuries they’d had. Or maybe they really were brothers—just supernatural ones.

“What’s his name?” Schwartz was asking, already at the foot of the bed with pen and clipboard in hand.

“Mm?” Sylvester tore his gaze away, the crinkle in his brow vanishing with a blink, and then grinned. “Cassy. Lucas if you wanna be technical, but he just _loves_ being called Cassy.”

Schwartz chuckled and despite himself Bobby snorted. Yeah, little brothers loved the nicknames their sibs gave them; _sure_.

“I’ll let you get reacquainted while I get the paperwork,” said Doctor Schwartz said, but before she left she favored Sylvester with a sad smile. “I’m afraid we should probably talk.”

“Only talk? Don’t disappoint me now, Doc,” said Sylvester with a grin not quite as lewd as it should have been given the subtext, but Schwartz only chuckled before striding away. Bobby and Sylvester both watched her, even though Sylvester couldn’t see her through the curtain.

The very instant her footsteps had faded from earshot, Sylvester’s gaze snapped toward Bobby with such intensity that it almost made the hunter take a step back. “So you gonna throw that holy water on me now, or d’you want to go on a date first?”

Bobby froze for a moment, his grip tightening, before making himself relax. “Yeah, I think I will,” he growled as he stepped forward, taking out the flask and unscrewing the top. Before he could throw any water Sylvester plucked it out of his hand and knocked the liquid back. When he lowered the flask he shook it with a tinkle that indicated some of the liquid had left the bottle; then he spread his hands and gave Bobby a mocking bow.

“There. Happy?”

“No.” Bobby said flatly, taking his flask back without taking his gaze off Sylvester and pulling out the silver knife. The other man sighed and rolled his eyes, but obligingly took the knife and made a cut on his upper arm. “Okay,” Bobby conceded grudgingly, taking the knife back while Sylvester pulled a handkerchief from somewhere to blot the blood. “You a hunter?” It would make sense in retrospect—and meant that the names Sylvester had given likely weren’t real.

“Hm; let’s see.” Sylvester checked a list off his fingers. “Not allergic to holy water, not allergic to silver, knows about the magical nasties. What else could I be?”

“There’s still cold iron,” Bobby pointed out, and Sylvester whistled with a shake of his head and another mocking smirk.

“And my brothers have called me paranoid. ’Preciate you sitting with my baby bro; goodbye.”

With that abrupt dismissal he turned away from Bobby, yanking a chair closer with his foot and taking a seat by Lucas’s bedside. His attention was completely on his brother, now, exclusionary with its force. He laid a hand on Lucas’s forehead, his mouth turned down and brow furrowed.

“That’s it?” Bobby demanded incredulously. “Don’t wanna know what the hell got your brother in this condition or how he turned up in my scrapyard?”

“I already know what put him in this condition,” Sylvester said. His dark tone made Bobby shiver despite himself, and then again when Sylvester craned his head around to narrow his eyes at Bobby. “You know why he turned up in your backyard?”

It was the look, more than anything, which convinced Bobby that Sylvester was telling the truth about ‘Lucas’ being his brother. This one was darker and far more intense, but Bobby had seen similar looks on other hunters with endangered family. Hell, he’d seen the same look watered down on a _seven-year-old_.

With a sigh Bobby stepped around to the other side of Lucas’s bed so he could look down at Lucas’s face. “Tell you the truth, I got no clue,” he admitted. “Couldn’t tell the police the whole story, but the whole thing was … _hinky_. One moment everything was quiet. The next, my dog was barking like a warren of rabbits were tauntin’ her at the gates, and your brother was just _there_.”

“Soaking wet and unconscious,” Sylvester said, still regarding Bobby with that narrowed gaze. The hunter didn’t look back in favor of watching Lucas’s chest rise and fall, but he nodded.

“He had blood on his clothes, some watered down on his face, but there wasn’t a scratch on him. Hasn’t woken up since. I’ve been keeping watch, just in case whatever did the number on him came back.”

He fell silent then, and Sylvester didn’t answer. Bobby watched him out of the corner of his eye as the man turned his gaze back to Lucas, his hand moving in absent motions, thumb stroking the unconscious man’s forehead. “You’re such a pain, bro,” Sylvester told Lucas. “Always have been. Stop trying to make it a record, bucko, you’ll never make it.”

Bobby was so busy watching Sylvester that he almost missed it when Lucas stirred, and the hunter’s gaze snapped to the side to focus on the unconscious man instead. He was still again, but Bobby _knew_ he’d seen what he saw, and he opened his mouth, taking a breath to say God-knew-what. With a faint, victorious smile Sylvester leaned forward.

“See, I knew you could hear me. Always had to be the good l’il boy, didn’t ya? Did everything your big brothers told you, even when you shouldn’t. Well, I’m telling you to wake up now, bro.”

There was an unmistakable ring of command in Sylvester’s voice. The air thickened. Bobby’s skin prickled. He gripped the silver knife harder and couldn’t resist the urge to glance around the room. What the _hell_ —

When he looked back at Lucas he jumped.

The man’s eyes were open. They were blue, clouded with pain and sleep and surprise, and fixed unwaveringly on his brother. His voice was so soft and raspy that Bobby barely heard him speak over the sound of his own heart pounding. “Gabriel?”

For a moment something in Sylvester’s—Gabriel’s—face wavered, but then he grinned almost too brightly. “Knew you were in there!”

“How …?”

“Pfft.” Gabriel waved his hand dismissively. “What, you think I can’t find a wayward sibling if I wanted to? Sorry to say it, but you’re just not _that_ good at hide-and-seek.”

But the deep confusion on Lucas’s face made Bobby’s gut tighten. There was something wrong here, something other than a psychic brother forcing his younger sibling out of a monster-induced ten-day coma. The injured man’s gaze wandered for the first time, taking in the room around them before stopping on Bobby. Bobby’s breath caught at the intensity of that gaze, at the way Lucas’s eyes widened with surprise and then softened with relief and something that looked astoundingly like shame.

With a frown Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at Bobby and then back at his brother, jerking his head toward the hunter. “You know this redneck, bro?”

Lucas’s gaze left him and Bobby found himself relaxing with a quiet exhale. The injured man looked confused again, but he nodded silently and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and spoke, his voice a bit firmer but no less gravelly. “You were right, Gabriel.”

The look on Gabriel’s face was nothing less than pure, unreserved shock. “Ex _cuse_ me?”

“Defying fate only leaves enough rope to hang yourself with,” Lucas murmured drowsily. Bobby had a thousand questions—how the _hell_ did this guy know him when Bobby had never seen him before in his life?—but he couldn’t muster the voice to ask them before the man fell asleep again. Instead he looked at Gabriel’s expression of surprise, unease and contemplation. And there was something under all that which seemed an awful lot like discomfiture.

“Get some rest, bro,” Gabriel managed after a moment, but Bobby was pretty sure Lucas was already asleep. The man turned in his seat to look at Bobby, the confusion in his expression brushed away by a frown. “You’ve never met him before.”

It wasn’t a question, but Bobby answered anyway. “Never seen him before in my life.”

“Huh.” Gabriel turned back to his brother, his gaze resting on Lucas’s face. He didn’t say anything more.

__

Angels didn’t dream, but Castiel wallowed in nightmares. Memories, really, snatches of scenes which made his self ache. Making that deal with Crowley. Lying to Dean’s face. Realizing his friends, his _family,_ knew the truth. Killing Rachel. Killing Balthazar. Watching as Dean turned away from him.

Watching as he turned away from _them_. He’d been filled with doubts, and never listened to them.

_“I’m going to find a way to redeem myself to you,”_ he’d told Dean, just before the pain hit. Just before the Leviathan had swallowed him whole and spit him back out again.

He opened his eyes to a dark room and a hospital’s ceiling. Although he knew exactly where he was, he still chose not to move for several moments in favor of breathing and feeling out the condition of Jimmy’s body and his own Grace. His Grace was torn and weary, but he was glad to feel that at least it was still _there_ , and apparently he’d managed to heal the worst of the injuries Leviathan’s presence had inflicted on his vessel.

It was possibly because of that relief that it took Castiel a few moments to realize he couldn’t feel Jimmy’s soul at all. He just had time to feel a pang of uncertain apprehension before—

“Oh, _now_ you decide to wake up, little bro? Figures.” Castiel turned his head to see Gabriel throw himself into the chair at his bedside, an open tin in his hands. “And all I did was go out to get some Turkish delight,” the Archangel admonished him, leaning back to put his feet up on the end of Castiel’s bed. “You sure have timing.”

That wasn’t how Castiel would have put it. The younger angel blinked slowly and debated answering, but his mouth was dry and he didn’t have the Grace to spare to heal himself of such a mundane problem. Instead he just watched, feeling that very human weakness and confusion and something close to relief that he wasn’t in a position where he could hurt anyone else.

“So I’ve been eavesdropping on our dear sibs still upstairs,” Gabriel was telling him in-between bites of Turkish delight. “You’ve sure thrown everyone into a furor, Castiel. Gotta admit, I’m surprised; of all the angels to Fall, you’re the last I’d have suspected would do it. So what happened, eh?”

He looked at Castiel expectantly, but Castiel only frowned slightly, wondering how he was meant to answer without a lick’s worth of saliva. After a few moments of staring at one another, the problem seemed to click in Gabriel’s head—or maybe he just read it in what little Grace Castiel had. “ _Oh_. Here ya go. I’d make your bed comfier, but I think the doc might notice.”

With a snap of the Archangel’s fingers a glass of cold water appeared on the bedside table, and after a moment of taking stock Castiel pushed himself to his elbows and reached for it. He had the strength for that, at least, even if it made his whole body ache and dull pangs prod his chest.

It took surprising effort not to gulp the whole glass down, but after only two or three swallows Castiel set the glass on the table again, his gaze returning to his brother. “Why are you here?”

“Castiel, I’m shocked you have to ask.” Gabriel didn’t look shocked. In fact, the Archangel grinned and leaned back in the chair, flicking a last corner of Turkish delight into the air to catch it with his mouth. “Y’think my little brother is gonna Fall and I’m not gonna be there to catch him?”

“You weren’t last time,” Castiel said without thinking, and then went still.

Gabriel’s humor faded in favor of a strange mix of surprise and resignation. “‘Last time’, huh? So tell me, Castiel, how far into the future are you from?” At that Castiel tensed, hands instinctively clenching, and he cast a slow glance around to see who else was present—if anyone. Gabriel caught the look and waved his hand again. “It’s the middle of the night and as far as the nurses know I got shooed out when visiting hours ended.”

He sat forward to tap Castiel’s forehead. “Come on, you think I wouldn’t notice? I did a proper scan of you after I came back. And that redneck, Singer—he didn’t have a _clue_ who you were. Told ’im we were hunters.” He snorted his amused disdain, but on the next breath it had faded, and he looked down at Castiel with something approaching nostalgia. “So how ’bout it, Castiel?”

For a moment Castiel looked into his brother’s eyes, torn between reaching out and not. Gabriel’s Grace was restrained, but less so if he’d been putting conscious effort into hiding from people in the immediate area. This close it still lit him up as if he glowed on a metaphysical level, and it was enough to confirm the Archangel’s words. Gabriel wasn’t the same as the one he’d met tormenting the Winchesters. Similar, but a couple of decades off being the same. If Castiel closed his human eyes he knew anything he could see through his Grace would be tinted by Gabriel.

Gabriel, who played his games and turned out to be one of the best of them all. Swallowing against the lump of shame in his throat, Castiel looked away. “Two-thousand eleven.”

“Now you wanna explain to me why steadfast Castiel can’t even look his older brother in the eye?” Castiel wrenched his gaze back around to find Gabriel’s expression was serious, his amber eyes steady, but before Castiel could choose to answer or not the Archangel went on. “While we’re at it, you going to explain what you meant just before you fell asleep? About me being right?”

Had he said that? Castiel searched his memory before deciding that yes, he had, and he had clarified too.

“I was—merely—” He groped for an answer, but there was no answer he wanted to give. Not to Gabriel. Finally he closed his eyes and let himself sink back into his pillows, startled to find he’d been feeling the strain. “You said once that Destiny couldn’t be fought.”

A few moments of silence. “Uh huh. And then?”

“We fought it,” Castiel said simply, opening his eyes again to look at his brother. Gabriel’s brow was furrowed in thought, his gaze piercing, but when he saw Castiel looking he summoned a grin.

“And she made you her bitch, right? Well, Cassy, if you’re going to play with the big boys …” He shrugged and made to lean back in his chair again, but Castiel’s next words made him freeze in the midst of reaching down for another block of Turkish delight.

“No. We made her _our_ ‘bitch’. We destroyed Fate.”

Gabriel looked up slowly, disbelief and shock etched on his face. “‘We’?”

Castiel’s fingers moved to indicate himself, then curled on his chest again. “Me. Bobby Singer. Sam and Dean Winchester. Some others helped.” Including Gabriel himself, but Castiel wasn’t sure how much he should or wanted to say.

The Archangel shook his head, his mouth turned down at the corners, and then went back to staring before finally able to say anything. “You sided with _Michael_ and _Lucifer’s_ vessels to make Fate your bitch? You stopped the _apocalypse_?”

“Yes.”

“ _Why_?!” Abruptly Gabriel was on his feet, tossing the tin aside; it sailed across the room and hit the floor with a clunk, skidding across the tiles until it struck the wall. The lights in the room flickered wildly as his wings started to unfold. “You stopped _Paradise_? The ball was rolling and you stopped the only chance we had for all the fighting to be _over_? What the Hell were you thinking?!”

Despite himself Castiel found himself levered onto his elbows yet again, his chin lifted. His Grace responded to that of Gabriel’s filling the room, tattered and not nearly as strong, but still strong enough to make Gabriel stop for a moment. “Because it was the right thing to do.”

Even after everything he did afterward, Castiel still believed it had been the right thing to do.

Gabriel stared, then let out a soft, bitter chuckle, his hands lifting to rake through his hair and stay there, atop his head. “I can’t _believe_ this. I can’t believe _you_. You went against something that has been foretold since the very _beginning_ , Castiel. I never would have thought that _you’d_ disobey Dad’s Will.”

Castiel’s mouth went dry, but he still managed to say, “I didn’t. Father wasn’t giving our orders.”

Gabriel’s mouth twisted with a fleeting and mocking grin. “Oh, you found out that, did ya? That Mikey was giving the orders and Daddy had fled the house? Is that why you Fell?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, striving to keep his voice even. His arms were shaking with exertion and the expenditure of Grace, but Gabriel’s wings were still half unfurled and Castiel _could not_ overcome the urge to remain defensive. Not after how long he’d been fighting the Archangels. “He was wrong to choose humanity’s fate for them, Gabriel.”

Gabriel shook his head and let out a ‘tch’, and looked away, breathing deeply. There was a ripple of something Castiel couldn’t identify; then the Archangel brought his wings and Grace back into his vessel and the electricity settled. In the distance they could hear alarms. Gabriel looked in their direction with a frown and snapped his fingers, and the sounds cut off. For a few minutes there was silence between them; footsteps hurried past the room as the nurses moved to check the patients in other rooms, but Gabriel must had done something to hide the door to his.

“I never understood why you wanted Armageddon to happen,” Castiel said in a low voice, and Gabriel finally turned to look back at him. “You’ve been here on Earth longer than I—longer than any angel. You were the first one of us to choose free will. You enjoy humanity, or you wouldn’t have stayed here so long. But you were willing to see it destroyed.”

“You call this free will?” Gabriel asked, gesturing to the both of them with a mirthless smile. “Falling just to stay out of the conflict? Dad’s not even around to see what we choose to do, let alone _care_.”

Castiel closed his eyes, placing conscious effort into keeping his breaths deep and even. “He’s around,” he said, and his voice was tight. “I’m—not sure _why_ He refuses to intervene, but He is watching, Gabriel.”

“Yeah?” The sneer was audible. “What’s He ever done for _you_ lately, bro?”

“He resurrected me,” Castiel said simply, and looked at his brother to see the surprise flicker across the Archangel’s face. “He brought me back better than I was.”

For a moment Gabriel didn’t say anything; he just stared. Then: “Huh. That explains the—” He gestured over his body and spread his hands as if to indicate his Grace. “I thought that was just because of your selves merging. I think you could take on Ariel now.”

Castiel swallowed, his gaze turning to look into the distance. “That merging is likely what saved my life. I didn’t have the Grace to heal myself, before then—I didn’t even mean to travel through time. I was just trying to get somewhere safe.”

“Yeah, well, you put out a Hell of a burst when you got here.” After a moment’s pause Gabriel took his seat again, settling almost on the edge and contemplating Castiel. “You remember this means you can’t go back to whatever you were doing before you got here, right?”

With a slow sigh Castiel nodded. When angels travelled time they needed to buffer themselves to protect their various selves and the souls of their vessels from being attracted to one another. Otherwise they would merge and the timeline would be irrevocably altered. That must have been what happened to Jimmy’s soul as well, but the thought filled Castiel with a strange, seeping relief. He’d tried to protect Jimmy from the Leviathan as best as he could, but he didn’t know how well he had managed. Jimmy’s soul was already displaced inside his own body—now it was where it should be again, alone within himself and at the beginning of his life.

God willing, he would remember nothing of his future.

Yet it meant that Castiel couldn’t go back. His self from this timeline was gone, with him now, and without him everything would change. No wonder Gabriel had said he’d Fallen—to the other angels, that’s what it must have looked like. Even weakened, the power of his future-self’s Grace had been too much for his past-self; usually when versions merged it was the one belonging to the relevant timeline which took precedence. Perhaps it was because he was in a vessel, and thus more grounded.

But it reminded Castiel of something else, and again he asked, “Why are you here?”

For a long moment Gabriel didn’t say anything, and Castiel lay back in the bed, deciding the Archangel wasn’t going to answer. Which, of course, was when he did. “I wanted to know what would make you Fall.”

With a blink Castiel looked over at the Archangel, and Gabriel huffed with a semi-headshake. “Don’t get me wrong; sometimes your faith was _annoying_. You were always so certain and you always did what you were told because of it. Of us all, you were the one who always believed the hardest. Castiel the faithful.” The Archangel’s gaze went distant, his fingers playing over each other, the trickster unable to keep from moving. “There were times when I wished I could believe that things would turn out okay like you did.”

Inexplicably Castiel felt a lump in his throat, and he looked away. He hadn’t wanted to hear that. “There is no need to consider me faithful any more. I have no idea what our Father intends.”

“But you still believe He’s got _something_ in mind, right?”

For a moment Castiel didn’t answer, staring down the length of the bed. Did he? He had, for a while, when he searched. Then God had said outright that He didn’t intend to interfere, and Castiel’s faith had been shattered.

But He _had_ interfered. He’d raised Castiel again, better than before, with enough strength to return half of Sam from the cage of Lucifer himself. Not even Raphael could have entered that cage, or else he wouldn’t have had any trouble restarting Armageddon.

Not that it was a good thing, Castiel thought bitterly. Hubris, plain and simple. He had been so proud and so pleased to be doing what he thought was his Father’s work—teaching free will to angels. And then he’d been scared, and tired, and desperate, and all those emotions he hadn’t known what to do with and hadn’t gone to Dean or Bobby about because he hadn’t wanted to drag them back into Heaven’s affairs.

God hadn’t even given him a sign that he was on the wrong path.

_But Dean and Sam and Bobby told you you were wrong,_ whispered a part of him that still _had_ faith—perhaps that part of him that had come from this time. _Isn’t that a sign?_

If it was, then his Father truly had still been watching. It had been Castiel who hadn’t been listening. And Castiel really wasn’t sure how he’d managed to go back in time ‘by accident’ given how little Grace he’d had to spare.

The angel closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he looked at Gabriel again the Archangel snorted, his mouth quirking. “That’s what I thought.”

“What do you intend?” Castiel asked, weary and resigned and ready for the end. He’d already been smote by two Archangels. If Gabriel chose to do the same, Castiel only hoped God didn’t see fit to raise him again so he could be smote by the fourth.

“Me?” Gabriel pressed his hands to his chest, his eyebrows lifting and wriggling to accompany the grin. “ _I_ intend to start making a list for our ‘corrupt Castiel’ vacation plans.” With a snap of his fingers the tin of Turkish delight reappeared on one hand and a pen and paper appeared in his other. Gabriel settled back in his seat, plucking out a block of Turkish delight and popping it in his mouth while he clicked the pen. “So, what d’you think of Italy, bro?”

Castiel could only stare, fighting off the familiar clench in his chest and tightness in his throat. He had become far too human over the years. “You … wish to spend time with me?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Hells yes! You know when I went to check up on Anael, she’d gone and made herself fully human? Figured she’d be better if I left her alone and all that. _You’re_ just drained dry, and that means you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

The last was punctuated with a jab of the pen at the bedridden angel, but Castiel only blinked slowly. “I don’t understand. Last time—”

“Tell me something, Castiel,” Gabriel interrupted with a longsuffering sigh. “You wouldn’t happen to have been a little tied up with something called the _apocalypse_ ‘last time’, would you? Buddy-buddy with a bunch of hunters including our dear brothers’ vessels? You think I’m going to risk revealing myself to any of _them_? Puh-lease.”

Castiel frowned. That didn’t make sense; if Gabriel had known he’d Fallen to help the Winchesters, why had he risked playing that game-of-Fate with them to begin with? Maybe he’d felt irked by Zachariah’s inability, the angel decided. Either that or part of him really had wanted someone to know the truth.

The angel turned back into Gabriel’s chatter to find the Archangel was enthusing about some television show he wanted to … _embellish_ on before it went on air. The glee on his face really should have taken Castiel aback, but the angel simply watched instead, managing to feel almost amused beneath the weariness starting to encroach on him.

He had been fighting for so long. Even if this wasn’t the Gabriel who had ultimately chosen in humanity’s favor, he was still the one who had exiled himself from Heaven instead of killing his own brothers.

Castiel was tired of killing his family. Perhaps a vacation with the only one of his brothers who refused the fight wouldn’t go amiss.


	3. Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion

Bobby had intended to go back to check up on Lucas and Gabriel the day after Lucas had woken up, but when he got home he found three messages on his answering machine asking, demanding and pleading him to come out to help a friend with a hunt. It had sounded urgent and hadn’t been far away, so with a sigh Bobby curbed his intense curiosity and went.

The hunt had taken four days. On the fifth day Bobby pulled back into the scrapyard and decided he really, _really_ needed a shower and about twelve hours’ sleep before he went anywhere, or else he’d be pulled over for endangerment after his eyes closed at the wheel for the thousandth time.

The next morning he drove to the hospital, feeling well-rested, to find that Lucas and Gabriel were gone.

“What?” Bobby demanded the receptionist in disbelief. “The man was in a coma, for God’s sake. And you just let him go?”

The man frowned at him pointedly, looking as if he’d much rather scowl but felt as if that wouldn’t be dignified. “Of course not,” he said. “His brother tried to get us to release him against Doctor Schwartz’s orders, but she felt that given his case Mr Wilton needed some observation and wasn’t of sound enough mind to release himself.”

‘She didn’t have a clue what was happening and wanted to figure it out,’ Bobby translated in his head. ’Course, being in a coma, with an overbearing brother like that, it wasn’t really a surprise Schwartz wasn’t sure about Lucas’s state of mind. Man could’ve spoken in his sleep or something, too. That usually drew attention, if it was a hunter doing it.

“How long ago did they leave?” he demanded. The receptionist shrugged, wrinkling his nose and answering in a tone that said he was only telling Bobby so Bobby would go away.

“They were gone when the nurses did their rounds this morning. From the looks of things Mr Wilton forged some release papers.”

“Thanks,” Bobby told him, half-sarcastic and half-sincere, and then turned away, shoving the brim of his cap back with a sigh. “Balls.” Well, if they were gone they were gone and there wasn’t jack Bobby could do about it.

Except ring around and ask people if they knew any hunters who matched the pair’s descriptions, that is. At least Bobby was sure of Gabriel’s real name, even though he had no clue of Lucas’s; but judging by Gabriel’s initial introduction, he didn’t have any troubles giving out false names, and he was nondescript enough that it was unlikely anyone would remember him. Still, maybe his demeanor had stuck in someone’s mind.

He’d try the Roadhouse first, Bobby decided. It had only been established a couple of years ago, but it had already gotten a reputation among hunters for being a good place to spend a night and get some information.

When Bobby got home he was so focused on making his calls that he’d already picked up the phone and started dialing before he noticed the bottle of whiskey on the table. The hunter stopped and stared, and then put down the phone to approach the bottle warily. It _looked_ like the good stuff, he thought grudgingly as he eyed it, craning his head this way and that so he could read the Johnny Walker label without touching the glass.

There was a piece of notepaper underneath it—it looked like a page ripped out of the pad he kept by the phone, in fact. Bobby read it and snorted, and despite himself he relaxed enough to reach out and pick up the bottle.

_‘I believe this you enjoy this brand,’_ the note read. _‘Consider it a promise to return and explain. Thank you, Bobby Singer._

_Castiel.’_

Well, even if the idjit had no sense of caution, at least he had good taste.

 

_***_

When Gabriel had been making plans for them both, it somehow hadn’t occurred to Castiel that a roadtrip might be on the list, let alone make it to the top. In fact, he didn’t remember Gabriel saying anything about it, and Gabriel had been filling the air with words since the second time Castiel had woken. Neither of them had brought up the apocalypse, the Winchesters or the future again, and since Castiel didn’t particularly _want_ to talk about any of those subjects with this particular brother, he had no inclination to change the subject of Gabriel’s ramblings.

The Archangel seemed to believe that it was his duty to either ‘keep Castiel company’ by talking, reading things aloud or commentating on whichever television show was playing at the time (and sometimes all three) or to ‘annoy the Grace out of Castiel’ by the very same means.

It did leave Castiel wondering if it was possible to smite an Archangel as long as the Archangel was taken by surprise.

The only upside was Gabriel’s disgruntlement with Doctor Schwartz. Not that Castiel felt much better about it, since his wings were healing and his Grace restoring itself quite well and he no longer had any need of a hospital, but his rapid healing was causing a stir. In addition, apparently something he’d said to the nurses made them think he was a bit ‘slow’, whatever that meant.

All he’d said was that the nurse wasn’t Dr Sexy _or_ the pizza man and he’d prefer it if said nurse kept his hands to himself. Gabriel, once Castiel had explained who Dr Sexy was and the Archangel had stopped laughing, said that the nurse had only been giving him a sponge bath; except now that he’d woken up Castiel didn’t need one of them either and he’d have thought the staff would be able to tell it was unnecessary. It didn’t stop Gabriel from snapping a rerun of something pornographic onto the room’s television.

Somehow that had led to Doctor Schwartz deciding Castiel was mentally incapable and Gabriel was a bad influence, which had led to Gabriel storming into the room late one night, throwing up his hands. “Get yourself ready, bro,” he said to Castiel. “We’re leaving, with or without that tyrant’s permission.”

“It was my understanding we were attempting to avoid ‘making waves’,” Castiel pointed out, but obligingly changed into Jimmy’s old clothes and smoothed a hand over the faded bloodstains and tears to repair them. It was unlikely they were going to be seen by any hospital staff after this, though he felt oddly … naked without the trenchcoat as well. His injuries he considered for a moment before deciding he had strength enough to get out of the hospital, but he didn’t dare stretch his Grace enough to try and heal himself fully.

Gabriel waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll snap something up as we leave, if they want something for their records so badly. I spent the afternoon being _lectured_ by a woman a quadrillionth my age about appropriate viewing choices. I swear, Castiel, I was ready to smite her.”

“That would have drawn attention,” Castiel said calmly, looking down at his tie with a furrowed brow and deciding to leave it even if the knot didn’t look right.

Gabriel only snorted in response and within a few minutes later the room was empty and the pair was two blocks away, standing under a streetlight beside a minor road. Castiel had followed Gabriel’s lead, though he wasn’t sure what to expect when they landed. With Gabriel, anything could have been waiting for them.

So Castiel wasn’t expecting the car. A Mustang, he believed; he recognized the form as the car Dean had driven in that alternate timeline when the Titanic hadn’t sunk. At first he just gave it a glance, but when he turned to ask Gabriel where they were going next—two blocks he could handle, but if their destination was too far he was going to have problems—he found the Archangel wandering around the car to the driver’s door.

“What are you going?” Castiel demanded, and surprise made his voice sharp. He really shouldn’t be surprised that Gabriel was apparently stealing a car, but he was.

“I’m getting into _my_ car, bro,” Gabriel said with a cheeky grin, dangling the keys on a finger. “Weren’t you listening when I was making plans? We’re going on a roadtrip!”

Castiel stared. He remembered the trip from Sioux Falls to Carthage, in the future so long past—the trip before Ellen and Jo had died. The first trip, but not the last. The memory made his wings clench with phantom confinement. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m completely serious, Castiel,” Gabriel assured him, laughter in his eyes. “If I’m not mistaken—and I’m _not_ —you can’t fly.” The last three words were pinpointed by a brief jab in Castiel direction. “At least, not more than a few blocks at a time. So, roadtrip. May as well see America, bro! Let it go, live a little!”

“I have seen America,” Castiel said, eyeing the Mustang, and Gabriel rolled his eyes.

“Seen it without being under the impending doom of the apocalypse?”

“I don’t see how that makes a difference.” That was something of a lie, and Castiel couldn’t meet Gabriel’s eyes as he said it. It was true; he’d never really had a chance to … ‘stop and smell the roses’, as he’d heard Balthazar say once.

Gabriel hummed. “That’s what I thought.” He snapped his fingers and abruptly Castiel found himself in the Mustang’s passenger seat, watching as Gabriel slid in and laid his hands on the wheel with a wicked grin. The car roared to life and Gabriel glanced at Castiel with a smirk. “If you’re lucky, little bro, I’ll even teach you to drive.”

Somehow, that thought filled Castiel with dread.

 

Somewhere between one song and then next, Castiel fell asleep—or near enough by angel standards that the difference didn’t matter. When he woke up there was something else playing, something Castiel didn’t recognize, but which sounded so completely unlike what Dean played that at first the difference was jarring. For a moment the fallen angel blinked rapidly into the early sunlight, squinting and trying to breathe through the way his heart was pounding.

Gabriel was right, he admitted grudgingly. If he was injured enough to be losing sense of time in such a way, the easiest way to get anywhere and give him time to rest was to drive.

He still wasn’t quite taking the ‘roadtrip’ idea seriously when they started into a small town. Gabriel pulled in to a motel by the road and shut off the car’s engine. Castiel looked at the building and then at his brother, and even on him his expression was disbelieving. “Gabriel.”

“What?” Gabriel spread his hands, his eyes wide with innocence. “Roadtrip, bro. It requires rest-stops. Even though the only one of us here who requires sleep has already slept.”

“I was not sleeping.” Castiel tried and failed to make his tone affronted, and Gabriel didn’t even look over.

“Whatever you say, Castiel. Either way, I’ve got a show on in half-an-hour and my leg’s getting tired. I don’t know how these people do this all day long.”

Castiel might have believed him except for the way the Archangel’s eyes were scanning the streets and the cars which sped past the driveway. Gabriel’s gaze locked on a blue vehicle and he grinned and then shoved open the door to step out. With a sudden sense of foreboding Castiel followed suit, glancing toward the car Gabriel hadn’t stopped watching as it vanished around a corner.

“You’re here to give out just desserts,” Castiel accused.

“Well, with you as a roadtripping companion I’ve got to make my own fun,” Gabriel said with an unrepentant shrug. “Besides, this was the next stop on my list before you went and nearly got your Grace ripped out. Some of these people …” He whistled. “They are _long_ overdue.”

“My apologies for ruining your plans to destroy peoples’ lives,” Castiel told the Archangel. The trace of sarcasm in his tone made Gabriel look at him, first in surprise and then with a spreading grin. Finally the Archangel chuckled, wagging his finger at his brother.

“You’re learning. Now c’mon; let’s get you situated before I go and fix some people up. I’ll even leave the room renovated for the next lucky schmucks to check in, if it makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t,” Castiel growled, but Gabriel was already walking away and the lesser angel had no choice but to follow, glancing around with a sigh at their surroundings on the edge of town. He was surprised Gabriel hadn’t chosen a better place, but then again, maybe he really didn’t intend to stay long. He’d implied he was on some kind of schedule, but Castiel didn’t believe it for a moment; the Archangel’s schedule was his own.

Maybe he was hoping he could teach Castiel some new tricks. In which case, Castiel thought determinedly, he was going to find himself disappointed. Castiel was through with tricks and manipulations and lying.

He wasn’t entirely sure if Gabriel even bothered to check in properly; there were a couple of people around, but no one even looked in their direction or at the car as they passed it. The angel just followed the trickster as he opened one of the doors on the end of the building with a flourish and stepped in to look around with a disapproving hum.

“Needs a bit of work, I think,” the Archangel decided as Castiel followed him in and closed the door. Looking around, Castiel could only agree. The walls were meant to be white but were a distinct shade of green from mould, while the carpet was threadbare and faded and there was a suspicious crunch under his feet. Only a minor extension of his Grace revealed a myriad of living things, from mice in the walls to numerous insects in the room alone. (The number of them in the bedding was simply astounding.)

“I’m thinking less love-shack and more rustic cabin,” Gabriel murmured, lifting his hands and snapping his fingers. Within a blink the entire interior had shifted; Castiel felt the ripples against his Grace. The walls were wooden, the floor thick carpet, the furniture made from thick timber. The beds had doubled in size, and despite Gabriel’s description of ‘rustic’ they had been made bright red and white.

“Why did you choose this place?” Castiel asked suspiciously, looking around. “You’re aware we’re trying to … lay low?”

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder with a suspiciously mischievous curve to his mouth. “As it happens, bro, I’ve got an appointment with the owner.” Then he huffed, shrugged, and rolled his eyes. “ _Well_ , that and I figure our sibs aren’t as likely to look for you here. Your Grace is still rebuilding, but we’re going to have to do something to keep you better hidden by the time you’re back to full strength.”

“Like you’re hidden?” Castiel pointed out, giving the Archangel a Look. “I knew it was you the instant I laid eyes on you. The first time, that is.”

“Maybe.” Gabriel shrugged and looked at him speculatively. “But tell me something—were you looking for me, or did I let you find me?”

At that, Castiel couldn’t really answer, so the angel stepped further into the room and looked around again. “What are you planning?”

Somehow he felt he was going to be asking that frequently.

“Well, firstly, Castiel, you’re gonna need some more clothes.”

Castiel frowned and looked down to pluck at the jacket. “I like these clothes. Though I also used to wear a trenchcoat. If you can find me one of them I would appreciate it.”

“Seriously?” The look Gabriel gave him reminded Castiel so much of Dean that Castiel felt a brief pang. The lesser angel had to look away.

“They were what my vessel was wearing when I first took him.”

“And you haven’t been wearing anything since? _Castiel_.” Gabriel sighed in shook his head, lifting his eyes in a manner which spoke of ‘give me strength’. “Is he even still in there?”

“No,” Castiel said shortly. He didn’t say that that was one of the reasons he wanted to keep wearing the same clothes. It was somehow respectful. He hadn’t done much right by Jimmy since first taking him as his vessel. Even now, Jimmy’s soul being absorbed by his younger self, all the memories forgotten, was the best thing Castiel could have done for the man and it was by accident. Somehow it felt as if changing his clothes was a final rejection of Jimmy’s memory—of the person he had been. The man who had sacrificed himself to save his daughter a life being tied to a comet.

Abruptly Castiel realized that Gabriel was staring at him, that his expression was one of thoughtful, almost _sympathetic_ , blankness.

“Fancy that,” the Archangel murmured, his eyes on Castiel’s face, and even though the lesser angel closed off his Grace again it was too late. “I didn’t realize you were capable of being so sentimental, Castiel.”

“I’ve changed,” Castiel said simply.

Gabriel watched him for a while longer, an unreadable expression on his face, but Castiel stared at the wall two inches to the side to avoid the Archangel getting a read on his Grace through his eyes. Finally Gabriel stirred and clapped his hands, and although there was a smile on his face, there was also thoughtful consideration. “Well, then, let’s get started.”

“With what?” Castiel asked. Gabriel gave him a faint smile and snapped his fingers, and Castiel felt a familiar weight across his shoulders. When he looked down again he found himself wearing Jimmy’s trenchcoat—or one so similar that it may as well be the same. Gabriel must have seen it in a memory when he read his Grace. And even though Castiel was sure Dean would classify this as a ‘chick flick’ moment, Castiel still couldn’t help but finger the lapels with the faintest smile of his own, then look up at his brother. “Thank you.”

Gabriel dismissed his thanks with a flap of his hands. “Oh, please. You’re gonna have enough to thank me for by the time I’m done with you.”

Somehow Castiel seriously doubted that, but he was more willing to concede to Gabriel’s foibles for the moment. So when the Archangel gestured him forward, Castiel obeyed and took a seat on the edge of the nearest bed, back straight.

“There’s one good reason you guys haven’t been able to sense me, bro,” Gabriel told him, gripping Castiel’s shoulders and turning him so the lesser angel’s back was well within reach. Despite himself Castiel stiffened and his fists clenched. Having an Archangel in such an unguarded position behind him made him nervous. Gabriel must have noticed, but he didn’t comment. “I’ve marked my vessel.”

Castiel barely had a chance to register what that must mean before Gabriel’s palms came down on his shoulder blades. He felt the Archangel’s Grace surge; the lights burst and a sudden strong wind rattled the windows. The pain hit a moment later as Enochian letters wrote themselves on the planes of Castiel’s bones. The angel grunted breathlessly and couldn’t help the way his back arched to get away from the touch, but Gabriel’s hands followed. His Grace prickled wildly, painfully, as the Enochian sigils tangled with it, and Castiel’s arms—all of them—swept back, clawing uselessly at Gabriel in an effort to get him _away_.

Then the weight on his shoulders lifted and Castiel sagged forward, breathing hard and with his back and wings still tingling. “What—”

“A little something I developed after I left.” The bed dipped as Gabriel sat, but Castiel didn’t look up. “Hurts like a bitch when it tangles with your Grace, but now no one’s going to be able to see you, even if they were standing next door and you were snapping up constructs. Not even Michael. Oh, they’d know it was happening, but they wouldn’t be know it was _you_.”

Experimentally Castiel shifted his wings and expanded his Grace. The sigils tugged on it, like those stitches he’d once been given just after he’d been found on a shrimping boat while trying to save Adam, except that after a moment the power seemed to _slide_ with the movement of Grace. “It’s … uncomfortable.”

But effective. The sigils turned his Grace into something else, at a glance. They wouldn’t hide the use of power, but he could believe that no angel or demon or even a god would be able to tell the power was Grace. He had only realized the Trickster had to be something else when he realized that said ‘Trickster’ had had far too much power at its disposal—a matter of resource depth, rather than type. Even then, it had taken laying eyes on Gabriel to confirm the suspicion, and possibly only because Gabriel had allowed it.

“You’ll get used to it,” Gabriel assured him cheerfully as Castiel pushed himself upright again, gingerly because he was expecting some dizziness. The younger angel’s gaze flickered up, but then away again, still not daring to look Gabriel in the eye in case the Archangel could still read something Castiel didn’t want him to.

“Why are you doing this?”

He could guess, but he wasn’t _sure_ , because the last time he had seen Gabriel the Archangel had flatly refused to believe that Destiny could be fought, Armageddon stopped. This Gabriel even knew that Castiel had tried and succeeded, and the angel found he wasn’t sure whether his brother approved or believed or what. Giving him this kind of protection only suggested that Gabriel perhaps wanted him to stick around—but in what capacity, Castiel couldn’t be sure.

“What, a guy can’t do something nice for his little brother?”

At that Castiel _did_ shoot the Archangel a Look, disparaging and disbelieving and stern at all once. Gabriel huffed and pushed himself to his feet. “So maybe I get lonely sometimes.” He turned, hands lifting and spreading in a ‘can you blame me’ kind of motion. “Two thousand years is a long time not to see the family, Cas. Sometimes I wonder—”

He cut himself off and exhaled slowly, and didn’t finish. So Castiel did for him.

“Sometimes you wonder if you’re the only one who wants the fighting to stop.”

They exchanged glances, Gabriel’s mouth twitching with an ironic smile. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Then he clapped, an eager smirk on his lips and a flash of something amused but almost dangerous in his eyes. “You’d better get some more rest, bro. I’ve got some just desserts to hand out.”

And just like that he was gone, though not before snapping the television on. With a glance over, Castiel recognized a porn channel and grimaced, looking away. The last time he’d watched porn … well, Dean had told him off for it, but the scene had been so very close to that old familiar camaraderie that the memory made Castiel’s heart ache for what he’d lost. He stood and found the remote to change the channel, only to find that every single one—two hundred of them—were the same.

Grumpily the angel turned the television off and tossed the remote aside, taking a seat in one of the armchairs and wondering just what he was going to do to pass the time after so long at war with his own brothers.


	4. I was soaring ever higher

In the end Castiel chose to leave the room, if only because he was concerned about just what and how Gabriel intended to punish his targets. The lesser angel suspected they may be in town for a while, because Gabriel wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to offer just desserts to whoever might deserve it, though not all of that time might be spent at this particular motel.

First Castiel went into the motel’s reception area and found the manager present with his receptionist. Judging by the way the (very nicely-suited) manager’s eyes were darting around and the forced nature of his smile, Gabriel had already begun his prank. Castiel didn’t see the Archangel anywhere, however, so without stopping to speak to either of the staff members he turned around and walked out again.

And kept walking. He had no destination, no purpose, so he just walked. When he happened across a park he sat and walked the children playing, and thought with pained nostalgia of sitting on a similar bench with Dean, discussing the end of the world and their doubts. That led to thinking about where things had gone from there, from Uriel’s betrayal to his own, from defying Fate to destroying it, from saving Earth to making war in Heaven.

To becoming God.

He had fallen so far, so fast.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon, when a police officer came by and very politely asked him to clear off, that Castiel remembered humans tended to get nervous about people who stayed in one place to watch children all day, no matter their intent. After that the angel wandered back to the motel room. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find himself tired once he arrived there, but he was, and when he sat down to rest he fell asleep.

He never saw Gabriel come in and watch him pensively, leaning against the armchair.

“What the Hell have you been into, Castiel?” the Archangel murmured. He knew Castiel was patient, but sitting outside a park to watch children play still wasn’t something Gabriel would have expected of a warrior angel. Then again, of all angels to do so, he was least surprised it was Castiel. He was very good at watching; always had been. He wasn’t really as much of a warrior as a supporter.

“I should’ve waited before marking your vessel,” Gabriel told his unresponsive brother. “I forgot that those sigils would make it hard for _me_ to read your Grace too.” As it was, all he’d managed to get was a definite sense of … well, if Gabriel hadn’t known any better—if Castiel hadn’t been an angel—he would have thought it was depression. Then again, he was talking about an angel who wanted to keep wearing his vessel’s last chosen outfit because of _sentimentality._

(It was fortunate, for him, that there was no one present—or living, the obvious aside—who knew just how long he’d been inhabiting his current meatsuit despite the man’s soul having passed on.)

“For a guy who supposedly helped stop Armageddon, you’re feeling pretty blue.”

Even then, the emotion was so amazingly … well, _human_ that Gabriel was still surprised. Castiel truly had changed. Had become like him. Like Gabriel.

That was probably why Gabriel wasn’t just leaving him. Why he’d stuck around after making sure Castiel was okay. He wasn’t sure how much Castiel chose to remember or acknowledge before Gabriel had left Heaven, but Gabriel remembered Castiel from when he was newborn, one of the last angels created before the Fall. Gabriel had a soft-spot for that set of siblings. And right now, Castiel was so similar to how Gabriel had been when he first came to Earth that Gabriel couldn’t even pretend he didn’t want to make sure the younger angel would be alright.

“Have you bothered to ask Dad for advice?” he asked Castiel almost idly, with a twist to his lips. Probably had, at that. “I bet you went _looking_ for Him, didn’t you? Well, He resurrected you. Guess that means He’s paying some kind of attention.”

Gabriel couldn’t help the bitterness in his tone, and was torn between feeling glad that Castiel wasn’t awake to hear it and feeling annoyed that he didn’t wake up to reprimand him for it. It had been a long time since Gabriel had stopped to talk to someone, and most of those had been pagan gods.

The Archangel sighed, reaching over and clapping a hand to Castiel’s shoulder, shaking him lightly to no response. “Welp, doesn’t matter. It’s you and me now, Cassy. We’ll stay out of this stupid family feud, how ’bout that?”

Castiel didn’t answer, but with a snap of his fingers Gabriel made him smile anyway, and the Archangel grinned. “That’s my bro.”

 

Three days after the angels arrived at the motel, the manager ran screaming out into the parking lot and almost got himself run over when he went out on the road. When the police arrived he was babbling about the talking mice and cockroaches that wouldn’t stop following him. He was taken off in an ambulance.

Gabriel had dragged Castiel out to watch, and in-between the Archangel’s snickers Castiel learned that the manager’s brother had been committed a couple of years ago and he had never visited; in fact, been quite vocal about his brother’s condition, and not in a good way. He’d also been skimming profits to keep a very nicely furnished home while the motel was a rat- and lice-infested hole.

“His niece has a business degree,” Gabriel told him. “She’ll be able to do something better with the place. And now he gets a taste of what his brother’s going through.”

Castiel chose not to comment on the fact that the Archangel’s smile was just a bit tighter than usual. He also noted that it was lucky they were currently invisible from the average human’s eyes, or else the police would surely have noticed Gabriel laughing to himself.

They stayed long enough to watch the police canvass the area, but as soon as the activity had died down Gabriel clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Alrighty, Cas, time to go! So much to do, so much to see, and you still can’t fly.”

“Do you have any intention of showing me any sights worth seeing?” Castiel asked. Gabriel pursed his lips and waggled his fingers in the direction the ambulance had left.

“What, you don’t consider people getting their comeuppance to be worth seeing?”

“No.”

“You’re so boring, Castiel.” Gabriel slung his arm over Castiel’s shoulder and turned him in the direction of the car. “Would it make you feel better if I let you choose the just desserts next time?”

“No,” Castiel repeated in the exact same cadence as before.

“Look at it this way.” Gabriel released him, opened the door and paused to grin back at him. “At least if you help me, you _might_ be able to keep me from doing something _really_ bad. 

Castiel watched as he winked and climbed into the car, and then with a sigh and something that might have been a roll of his eyes the younger angel followed suit.

__

“What about him?” Gabriel’s elbow interrupted Castiel’s thoughts and the younger angel looked him, following the direction of Gabriel’s nod. They were in a roadhouse and Gabriel, at least, was eating. Castiel felt a bit weary, but not hungry, and had no intention of eating even though Gabriel had ordered for the both of them.

The man Gabriel was indicating was seated at the counter, and from the way he leaned on it and the leer on his face as he spoke to the very young waitress behind it, Castiel didn’t really need to read the man’s soul to know why Gabriel had pointed him out. The younger angel did so anyway, just to confirm the man was as much a misogynist as he seemed.

“He doesn’t seem like your qualification for ‘fun’,” Castiel noted and turned away. Men like him had to be common. He would have thought Gabriel would go for someone more original.

The Archangel shrugged, somehow managing not to lose his grip on the huge burger. “But he’d make a good one to start out on. Kid gloves, Cassy, kid gloves! So go ahead. How would you gift just desserts to a man like that?” Gabriel popped a couple of fries into his mouth and watched him expectantly. Castiel stared back. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Gabriel remembered their conversation from a week ago, but he was.

The Archangel lifted an eyebrow and pointed to the pancakes. “Now either you answer me, bro, or you’ll have to eat those pancakes. Preferably both, but I can’t say I’m surprised I’ll have to work up to that.”

Castiel glanced down at the soggy pancakes and then, with a sigh, unwillingly turned back to the man eyeing the waitress’s behind. “The most obvious course would be to turn him into a woman.”

“Bzzzt. Wrong answer.” Gabriel snapped his fingers, and Castiel looked around to see what the Archangel had done before realizing it was for emphasis, not power. Gabriel grinned when the younger angel looked at him reproachfully. “Gotta keep you on your toes. Now, changing genders—sure, that’s easy as pie, but boring.”

“It would teach him the appropriate lesson,” Castiel pointed out, “which is the point of giving out just desserts, is it not, _Gabriel_?”

Gabriel scoffed. “Take another look, _Cassy_. You really think a guy like that’s going to _learn_ anything no matter what we do? Sure, it’d be great if all punishments taught people what they were doing wrong, but some humans just never catch on, no matter how good the punishment is. Even a few months on Earth should have taught you that.”

He was, Castiel admitted reluctantly, correct. When he turned to read the man’s soul more closely, it became clear that the human had that unique brand of confidence and entitlement that ensured he would never actually believe he was in the wrong, and only continue to blame everything else for the ills that might befall him—no matter how supernatural in nature.

“It is not our place to judge—” he began, and stopped before Gabriel could even interrupt. Instead he felt his brother’s expectant gaze, even while the Archangel continued to munch on his burger.

Castiel sighed slowly. Not their place. So many things were not their place; now he was beginning to sound like he had before he’d even met Dean and Sam. It may not have been _their place_ , and maybe they weren’t as much the agents of Fate as they believed they were or ought to be, but if they didn’t punish the man, who would? In that fashion, they _were_ the agents of something—of karma.

_And isn’t that what you were doing after you named yourself God?_ he reminded himself—a small part of him which still remain somewhat unsullied by his future memories. The part of him that still retained some of his past-self’s purity.

He couldn’t deny it. He had punished the self-righteous, and even if the punishments were justified, they had gone too far. And he had lost control.

“Hey hey hey.” Gabriel snapped his fingers in front of Castiel’s nose and the younger angel blinked and, once again, looked around automatically. “You’ve got this annoying habit of drifting off places, did you know that? So what’s the verdict?”

“I don’t want to punish him, Gabriel,” Castiel admitted, and despite everything he couldn’t look his brother in the eye. Instead he studied his hands, resting on his lap, and felt Gabriel studying him in turn.

After a moment Gabriel sighed. “Fine. I’ll take him myself, later. Take a look at that one instead.”

Half against his will, Castiel looked up and found the rather frazzled-looking girl Gabriel was indicating. She was sitting hunched in a corner of the roadhouse, books on the table while she scribbled notes furiously. A student, Castiel saw in her soul—from the frustrated urgency, one very close to finishing her schooling. So close to being the top of her class, the top percentage in the state, possibly the top percentage in the country.

In her future, he saw depression and suicide as her mad scramble for achievement thrust away everyone around her; he saw a college life filled with nothing but pressure and study and unhappiness. But unlike the man at the counter, he also saw what she had been—a happy girl with lots of friends, happiest in a group. He saw a woman capable of learning, still.

He wouldn’t punish. But he could teach. Reluctantly he nodded, and Gabriel slapped the table.

“Great. Now, how do you teach her, bro?” The Archangel reached over to pick up the plate of pancakes while Castiel observed the young woman, only looking away when Gabriel reminded him that staring would draw attention. “Remember, we’re not staying here long, so it has to be something quick and easy,” Gabriel added. “She shouldn’t be too hard, anyway. Sure, she’ll achieve more than others if we let her go, but people like her are a dime a dozen.”

Castiel watched his brother eat while he turned the problem over in his head. A tragedy befalling one of her loved ones would be the fastest, easiest way of making her realize what she was about to lose, but it was also the cruelest, and Castiel rejected the idea. (He was ashamed to realize he hadn’t rejected it quickly enough to keep himself from considering several means of doing so first.)

Preferably it would be something done to her, though those lessons would be much harder to pull off, less obvious as they were. Whatever he did, it needed to draw her attention to the people and experiences around her, instead of allowing her to bury herself more fully in study. What’s more, it couldn’t be something that would affect others, such as something that would disrupt her classes; other students needed them, after all, and Castiel didn’t want to influence them unduly. Finally, it couldn’t be something that would use too much of his still-building Grace.

Something that affected her books, he decided. Perhaps if her books disappeared for a few days, she would have occasion to turn her attention elsewhere.

“Thought of something?” Gabriel asked as he happily mopped up syrup with a square of pancake, but it was less of a question than it appeared.

“Yes,” Castiel said even though he knew his brother had already read it in his Grace.

“Oh- _kay_ then! Tonight we’ll do a bit of … _teaching_.” Gabriel pushed the plate back and leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh. 

 

“You disappeared her _books_?” Gabriel asked incredulously when Castiel reappeared in their motel room with an armful of textbooks. The younger angel nodded shortly.

“I thought that without the means to study, she might turn her attention to other things,” he explained. “She has an exam the day after tomorrow. It would do her good to realize she doesn’t need to study as hard to do well.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “If she doesn’t give herself an aneurysm first.” Then he sighed and lifted his hands, shrugging. “Fine, fine. Whatever. Your lesson, bro. But I’m telling you, this isn’t just boring, it’s _not_ gonna work. I’ll even give you a few days to watch events unfold.”

Castiel frowned but said nothing, as Gabriel had vanished a moment later. Instead he looked through the books, wondering what had made Gabriel say so with such conviction. This was a very smart woman, the angel thought—Caitlyn, was her name, Caitlyn Forrester. It was written in the front of all her books with a neat hand.

After frowning down at the textbooks for a few moments Castiel laid down the one in his hand and decided he’d better go keep an eye on his erstwhile student. Just in case Gabriel was going to cheat.

By the time the next morning had ended, Castiel would have begun to doubt his course of action even without Gabriel’s advice. Caitlyn was going frantic and she was snapping at her younger brother. In fact, they were in the middle of an argument because Caitlyn believed Brandon had stolen her books.

It didn’t sound like the kind of argument which, while serious, would blow over due to sibling ties. In other words, it was nothing like the arguments between Dean and Sam. Or perhaps it was _overly_ like those arguments, without the advantage of the life-and-death bond. Only a quick look at both their souls told Castiel that this conflict was liable to break Caitlyn and her brother’s already strained ties for good.

For a moment Castiel stood there, watching, without knowing quite what to do. Then he heard the rustle of wings and turned to see Gabriel leaning against the wall, also watching. The Archangel caught his eye, gave him a false smile and shrugged.

Castiel didn’t need to read his Grace to know this was cutting Gabriel to the quick and, equally so, that Gabriel would never admit it. Frankly, the scene was making chills run down Castiel’s spine too. It reminded him too much of siblings, and what they could do, and the pain they could cause to one another.

When Caitlyn stormed back into her room a few minutes later, it was to find her books under her bed, one jutting out as if it had just fallen. She was puzzled as to how they made it there, but to Castiel’s relief she assumed she’d put them there for some reason or another the night before (she’d been tired enough to do so and forget), and went to apologize to her brother.

Castiel, watching, exhaled slowly. “What did I do wrong?” he asked without turning.

“You didn’t look deep enough,” Gabriel answered. “Sure, sometimes it works to break up relationships, but if that’s something you’re not planning to do for its own reasons then the first thing you’ve got to look at is what kind of relationships the target has. Siblings …” Gabriel laughed, and if it was bitter, neither of them mentioned it. “Siblings have a way of bringing out the worst in people. It’s always blame, blame, blame.”

Castiel watched Caitlyn, her head bowed over her desk, for a few moments more, his brow crinkled. Then he tilted his head, nodding slightly to himself. Gabriel was right. People tended not to learn things when they could blame others. And they tended to learn best if they had a bit of pain to jolt them out of their self-absorption. 

That night when Caitlyn was in bed asleep, restless with pre-exam jitters, Castiel turned off her alarm.

 

Caitlyn wasn’t sure what woke her up. It felt as if she’d tossed and turned for hours, and when she had finally gotten to sleep she’d had dream after dream, things she couldn’t remember the instant they’d fled her mind.

It definitely wasn’t her alarm, because she woke up slowly—at first. Then she realized that it _wasn’t_ her alarm and jolted upright, her heart in her mouth. Her head snapped around to the clock and for a moment she froze, her throat closing up and tears springing to her eyes.

It was already nine-thirty. The exam started _sharply_ at twenty past ten. It was half-an-hour to the school, and they were meant to be there _early_ , before the doors were closed and locked. She was _late_.

How could she have forgotten to turn her alarm on!? She hadn’t slept through it—she _couldn’t_ sleep through that alarm; it was too loud and invasive.

For a few minutes she just sat there in the grip of tearful despair, but then in a flurry of panicked motion she threw back her covers and scrambled out of bed, snatching at the nearest clothes. She could still make it, she told herself. If she hurried, and skipped a shower and breakfast—she wasn’t hungry anyway—and sped a bit on the roads, _she could still make it_.

She couldn’t miss this exam. Her whole grade would be ruined if she missed even _one_ , and this one was worth half her marks for the class.

Ten minutes later she ran out the door, letting it slam shut behind her. Her parents’ cars were already gone; hers was waiting in the garage, and she threw her bag onto the passenger seat, breathing hard as she shoved the key in the ignition and turned it.

The engine turned over and failed. Caitlyn turned it again, her heart pounding and tears in her eyes, hardly aware of the words tumbling from her mouth. “Please, please, please …”

By the time the engine caught Caitlyn’s nerves were wound so tight she was almost jerking the wheel, without awareness, as if that would encourage the car to start. She shoved her seatbelt into its clip and pulled out of the driveway, taking the corner much faster than she usually would have and roaring down the street.

“I can still make it,” she told herself, her hands trembling with nerves, her stomach churning as she turned onto the main road. She’d just have to speed a bit, and cut through the lights on yellow—she didn’t usually drive like a maniac, but this was an emergency.

Three sets of traffic lights from her suburb, she completely missed the white Sierra turning onto her road from a slip-lane. 

 

Caitlyn was somewhere warm. Somewhere warm, sleepy and painless, where there was no stress or tension, or hardly any thoughts at all. It was nice. In fact, it was so nice—so different from what she was used to—that the niceness woke her up.

Something beeped nearby and there was antiseptic in her nose, and she felt so heavy it was like something was pressing her back into her bed. Wait—her _bed_?

A flash of panic had her eyes open and the beep speeding up, and though it hurt to do so she tried to look around. Her head lolled instead, and the throb in it nearly sent her back to that comfortable darkness. She whimpered.

There was a rustle, and then came her mother’s voice, hopeful and tearful in equal amounts. “Caitlyn?”

Caitlyn pried her eyes open again without knowing quite when they’d fallen, and looked blearily in the direction of her mother’s voice. It wasn’t only her mother there; it was her father as well, looking just as tearful, and her brother behind them, sitting slumped and legs drawn up on a hospital chair.

When they saw her looking her parent’s tense expressions relaxed, and her father let out a half-sob, blinking hard, while her mother reached for her hand.

“What—” Caitlyn started, but her voice was so hoarse, her mouth so dry, that the words caught in her through. She tried to swallow instead, and Daddy was helping her sit up and her Mom was offering her a plastic cup with a straw. It took Caitlyn a moment to realize that the reason the cup was trembling was because her mother’s hand was.

“It’s alright,” Daddy said with a watery smile. “You’ve—this isn’t the first time you’ve woken up. It’s just that before, you …”

He faltered, but Mom’s smile brightened as if to compensate. “You have a concussion, sweetheart,” she whispered, brushing Caitlyn’s hair out of her eyes as the girl drank and then sank back into the hospital bed, the dread of memories stabbing her.

“I got into a car accident, didn’t I?” she said in a small voice, and then her gut twisted again, adrenaline shooting through her limbs as she followed on logically from what that meant. Her breath caught in her throat and her elbows went back in preparation to try and push herself up. “My exam—”

“Screw your exam!” Brandon snarled suddenly, and leapt to his feet.

“Language, young man—” Daddy started, but Caitlyn was too busy being nonplussed by the fact that her brother’s cheeks had tear-tracks on them. Everything was a daze, but somehow that’s what stood out. Brendan just ignored their father, making a semi-obscene gesture toward Caitlyn.

“Every time you woke up before now that’s the first thing you asked, and look at what caring too much about your exam has gotten you! If you hadn’t been speeding, this wouldn’t have happened! If you—” He took a breath and shuddered instead, his throat working and eyes blinking, working to hold back fresh tears. “If you didn’t _care_ so much about stupid school you wouldn’t have turned so mean and you wouldn’t be hurt—”

He managed to withhold the tears, but he was breathing hard, defiantly, his face red and fists clenched. Caitlyn opened her mouth to say something, but she didn’t know what, and all of a sudden found her throat was closed and her eyes were burning anyway, her chest tight. His worlds swirled in her head. _Wouldn’t be hurt—wouldn’t be_ mean _—_

“I’m sorry,” she finally managed to choke out. “I’m—I’m sorry—” 

After that the words came more easily, and even when her parents hugged her and Brandon in turn, or when Brandon started crying for real, trying to talk over her, she couldn’t say anything else.

Caitlyn’s refrain of apologies rang in Castiel’s head. He stood quietly in the corner, watching; his impassive expression belied the tightness in his earthly chest. He felt Gabriel beside him, but the Archangel said nothing. He only watched too.

“I thought,” Castiel said at last, breaking the silence that seemed to surround them despite the relieved and sorrowful words coming from just a few feet away. “That a sibling might help her see the light, if given the proper opening.”

He didn’t mean it, but his voice was soft with all the possibilities. After all, hadn’t he seen with his own eyes what the influence of siblings could create? Hadn’t he had to rescue Sam from Hell because Dean couldn’t bear to be without his brother? Hadn’t he had to stand and watch Uriel, his brother, his comrade, be killed by their sister, their captain, to save his life?

Hadn’t he led half of his siblings into war against the other half, because of what he had achieved with the Winchesters?

And wasn’t he now playing Fate—or playing God—at the influence of his wayward older brother?

Gabriel heard the implications that he left unsaid and stiffened, but Castiel ignored the reaction in favor of watching the family. Their souls were dark, but he could see them brightening before him; he could see the darkness being sloughed off, could see the reconciliation.

His eyes burned for the things his family would never have, but no tears came.

“Your first just desserts, Cassy,” Gabriel said at last, but the jocularity in his voice was affected. He wasn’t even trying to hide that. “I’m so proud. We’ll have to celebrate.”

Castiel translated that in his head to mean: ‘we need to get drunk and fast’. He couldn’t say he disagreed.


	5. But I flew too high

“This is not something I consider a worthy celebration, Gabriel!” Castiel shouted over the pounding music. The bass was so loud that it made the whole of his earthly body throb and his teeth rattle with every beat. He couldn’t be certain if it was better or worse than what a human would be feeling, because he was an angel and it felt awful, and yet the people in the club seemed to revel in it.

Gabriel was sprawled on the plush stained booth-seat, a drink in his hand and a grin on his face as he watched the movement behind his brother. Castiel refused to look over; in fact, he kept his face very firmly turned away from the stage and sat stiffly on the edge of his seat.

“Come on, Cas, live a little!” Gabriel shouted back, and pointed suddenly toward the stage. “Damn, _she’s_ flexible!”

“We shouldn’t be here,” Cas argued, voice still raised and eyes locked on the dim round light set into the wall a foot over Gabriel’s head.

“I don’t think Dad’s gonna care, little bro,” Gabriel pointed out. “Hey, if it suits you better, the men will be starting in about an hour.”

Not once did his gaze move to Castiel’s face; the younger angel’s mouth tightened with irritation. At least this was marginally better than the brothel, he reluctantly admitted. There, he had been able to feel gazes on him, had felt the expectations around him. Here, he could alleviate his anxiety with annoyance. It helped that no one was going to come up to proposition him, because they were all on stage.

He still couldn’t quite keep the expression of pained nervousness out of his eyes.

Abruptly there was the sound of cheers nearby and Gabriel shot forward in his seat, a grin plastered all over his face and a wad of notes in his hand. Castiel watched him with wide eyes. “What are you doing!?”

The words had hardly left his mouth when he felt a presence beside him, and his head instinctively jerked to the side to see what he’d missed, his hand clenching as if around a knife-hilt. He hardly relaxed a moment later when he saw one of the dancers, scantily clad and with a winsome smile, draping herself over Gabriel’s lap. Castiel’s eyes skittered all around the woman before settling firmly on the wall.

That didn’t stop him from being able to hear Gabriel’s words. “Hey, babe, my brother here just got back from deployment,” said the Archangel, “and he needs some lightening up.”

Castiel’s eyes widened, his gaze snapping to Gabriel’s face as the Archangel tucked the money into the string of the laughing girl’s thong. “Gabriel—”

The girl spun away from the Archangel and around the small table, and somehow landed in Castiel’s lap. The angel could only sit there, eyes very wide, as the woman gyrated against him, her hands caressing his face and running through his hair. What was he meant to do? This wasn’t like the brothel to which Dean had taken him, and he was fairly sure he wasn’t meant to kiss the woman, judging by how the attempts by some of the other men had been received.

So in the end Castiel did nothing except stare at the wall of the booth opposite him, just past Gabriel’s head, and feel very flushed and warm (and other things) by the time the woman left their booth. The Archangel looked torn between laughing his head off and shaking it in despair, and in the end did both as he lounged against the seat, toasting Castiel with the drink in his hand.

“Castiel, Castiel—you’ve got a lot to learn.”

Castiel swallowed hard. “I’m going to leave now.”

Gabriel sighed a deep, longsuffering sigh, and waved an acquiescing hand. “Fine, we’ll go. Always knew you’d be a tough nut to crack.”

“Please stop trying,” was all Castiel said to his brother until they had left the club, and when Gabriel began making some lewd suggestions as to how he should finish the evening, Castiel simply walked away in the opposite direction to the motel in which they were staying. Maybe Gabriel realized he’d gone too far. Or maybe he just decided that he could afford to give Castiel some breathing space. Most likely he’d found a target he wanted to torment in the city that was their new haunt. Whatever the case, the Archangel didn’t follow.

It was late, but Castiel needed much less rest than he had ten days ago in that first town and he was tired of being confined to the car. It was cool enough that he felt the difference, but he was well enough that he was mostly unaffected by it; if anything, it seemed to help the state of arousal he was unsure how to otherwise handle (except by doing one of the several things Gabriel had suggested; none of which were, of course, an option).

The moon was a thin sliver in the sky, but it was the only celestial body visible thanks to the city’s lights. Still, when Castiel found a stretch of semi-undeveloped lots there was a good patch of sky visible, and the moon made a pretty sight framing one of an unfinished building’s towering struts. He stayed there for a time, looking up at the moon, but it wasn’t the moon he saw. Not really.

What he saw was the Forresters, crying but happy and suffused with relief. It was such a little change, what he’d done. It could have happened by chance. It could have happened without needing the alarm to be turned off, without Caitlyn being late, at all.

He hadn’t been wanting to, but Castiel found himself thinking of what little changes he might make. Things that would keep the apocalypse from happening. Things to make the future better, to convince Gabriel to stand on their side earlier, to reduce the sacrifice preferably to nothing.

To make it so Heaven never fell to war.

And yet, at the same time, he wondered—could he? _Should_ he? He’d had so many good intentions, before, and they had led him down a path worse than Hell. Could he take the risk that he wouldn’t make a mistake again?

Suddenly the angel felt a wash of cold and the decaying edges of a soul left too long on the Earth after its body had departed. He felt its presence before he heard the sound of a spade against soil, a sound so oddly familiar that he couldn’t help but be drawn towards it. He couldn’t see the source; the half-finished building was in the way. But he heard blasphemy, the kind that came when someone had just been startled by something genuinely dangerous, and then the thud of a body hitting the ground.

With a half-beat of his wings Castiel rounded a half-bricked wall in time to see the ghost reach down for the hunter trying to scramble to his feet. The ghost—a man with a permanent snarl—slammed the hunter against a pole, its fingers clenching around the man’s throat. One of the hunter’s hands tugged at the ghost’s wrist, but the other groped for something that he could use as a weapon, something iron.

The grave was nestled against the wall, under a girder, beside a concrete foundation so stained that Castiel could tell it had belonged to a building long since knocked down. There was a half-opened bag of salt beside it; swiftly Castiel snatched it up and called—“Hey!”

The ghost turned and got a face full of salt, dissolving into black wisps. The hunter slumped to the ground, gasping and coughing, but Castiel turned and grabbed the spade, unburying the bones with a few swift throws.

“Watch it!” croaked the hunter; without his angelic hearing Castiel might not have heard the man speak at all. As it was he felt the ghost’s presence reappear against his Grace. Instead of turning Castiel ducked, evading the ghost’s shove, and dumped the salt over the bones. Then he whirled, jerking back to avoid the ghost again as it materialized beside him. If it had looked unhappy before, now its expression was thunderous.

“Here!” Castiel glimpsed a flash of movement and caught the lighter the hunter tossed to him, and with a click and a toss as he leapt back again, extending his Grace to the grave. He might have poured a bit too much into it; the flames exploded to life so tall and fast that they licked the girders above.  The ghost shrieked, combusting from inside.

Then there was relative stillness and Castiel paused, feeling out the area with his Grace. When he was satisfied that had indeed been the only ghost he moved toward the hunter, who was still rubbing his neck and leaning against the pole.

“Good thing you were here,” the man said hoarsely, peering up at Castiel in the faint illumination of the flashlight lying a few feet away. It made Castiel easy to see, but left the hunter in the shadows around the pole; about all Castiel could see with his human eyes was that the man had dark hair. “Thanks for that.”

“You are welcome,” Castiel said, a little stiffly. He crouched and touched the man’s throat, resisting the urge to heal it instantly, and said, “You’ll live.”

The hunter chuckled, a huffing, snorting chuckle of mixed relief and bemusement and no real humor at all. “I will _now_. Didn’t know there were any other hunters in the area.”

He pushed himself to his feet and managed not to sway. Castiel stepped away, remembering Dean’s assertion of the necessity of personal space. (The memory carried a pang with it, but Castiel managed to ignore that.) “I am not a hunter.”

“You’re not?” The man gave him a skeptical look as he skirted the angel to make for the grave so he could douse the flames and collect his equipment. “So you just learned how to salt and burn for the hell of it, that right?”

Castiel hesitated for a moment. He couldn’t very well tell the man the truth; the angels weren’t supposed to have set foot on Earth in an official capacity for two thousand years. “It … runs in the family. I … grew tired of it.”

The man stopped in his movements, taking a breath as if about to say something, head half turning. Though he wasn’t looking at Castiel the angel could see in the light that the cast of his face was haggard, even though he was fairly young; certainly not old enough for grey hairs. In fact, he seemed familiar. “You’re lucky, then. I get the feeling not everyone gets to leave.”

“If you don’t wish to hunt, then why do you?” Castiel asked, and this time the man glanced over. It was only a fleeting look, almost a head-shake, but the movement seemed to jolt him out of his reverie.

“There’s something that came after my family, and I need to find it. I can’t stop hunting until I do.”

The familiarity was so strong now that it was almost tangible, and without thinking Castiel reached out with his Grace to touch the man’s soul, even without looking him in the eyes. He wouldn’t be able to see the man’s history, but surely if Castiel knew him so well just the brief touch would tell him who it was.

Except even that touch made Castiel stiffen and his eyes widen slightly with surprise, because surely, _surely_ , this couldn’t be a coincidence—it couldn’t simply be chance that he and Gabriel would wind up in the very same city as the Winchesters. _Especially_ not so soon after the thoughts Castiel had just been having.

“Hey. You okay there?” John was looking at him again and Castiel abruptly felt glad that he was now in shadow himself.

“I was just thinking,” the angel said, _without_ actually thinking about his words, “that salt and burns would be easier if you used a shotgun with salt-filled rounds.”

John paused and straightened up, and from the tilt of his head Castiel knew he was seriously thinking that over. “Not a bad idea. Something your family did?”

“No,” Castiel admitted. “It’s something that a—a family friend used to use on his hunts.”

“Probably not the only one. Can’t imagine someone else hasn’t thought of it, but I’m still pretty new to hunting.”

_Yes,_ Castiel wanted to say as he watched the man pack up, _I know_.

_“I know a little something about deadbeat dads.”_

The angel wanted to ask about Dean and Sam, wanted to berate the man for being out here, on a hunt, instead of back at whichever motel room they were occupying. He wanted to shake John for being so oblivious to the damage he was doing to both his sons. He wanted to make him see how he was teaching Dean that the only thing for which he had any worth was guarding his little brother.

He just stood there in silence until John slung his bag over his back and turned to him. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.” Castiel wasn’t sure where the words came from, but they came, and with an acknowledging nod John Winchester turned and strode out of sight.

And still Castiel stood and watched the unfinished doorway through which the man had left. 

 

“Did you know they were here?”

Gabriel looked up from the television with a blink and didn’t answer for a moment, seeing as his mouth was full of chocolate. He chewed a bit more, swallowed, and then answered his brother with, “Know who was here?”

“The Winchesters,” Castiel snapped, and although he didn’t pace, there was still tension quivering in every muscle. The way he was standing, Gabriel was almost surprised the other angel’s vessel hadn’t exploded already. Or he would have been, if he hadn’t been startled by Castiel’s words.

“Woah, woah!” The Archangel swung his legs off the bed, lifting a hand, his brow crinkled. “The Winchesters, as in Michael and Lucifer’s vessels, are _here_?”

The Winchesters. Hunters. Dad damn it; that _definitely_ hadn’t been what Gabriel intended.

“Yes.” Castiel eyed him, but he relaxed a bit, and Gabriel felt a pang of something indefinable as he realized that his brother had been ready to feel betrayal. Though why Castiel might feel betrayal about that, he wasn’t sure—even though it was kind of true. If Gabriel had known they were in town, he certainly wouldn’t have mentioned it.

He wouldn’t have brought Castiel anywhere _near_ here.

The Archangel forced a laugh. “Come _on_ , bro! If I’d known your hunter buddies were in town d’you really think I’d have brought you right to them?”

Well, damn. That still let on more than he’d intended, and judging by the way Castiel’s eyes narrowed the other angel hadn’t missed it. “Fine. You didn’t know.”

“Hells yeah, I didn’t,” Gabriel grumbled, and rose. “C’mon; we’re leaving.”

Castiel’s expression of surprise made more of his intensity melt away, and it was quickly followed by a flash of apprehension. “Now? You haven’t finished with your … business.”

Gabriel shot him a look and snapped his fingers at him, a move which simultaneously turned the television off and flicked on the porch light. “You think I want you in the same city as those two miniature knuckleheads?”

For a moment Castiel was silent, and Gabriel turned away toward the door. “Gabriel, wait. Let’s stay a bit longer. Please.”

It was the tired plea that made the Archangel freeze. He didn’t look around, but he still infused his voice with sarcasm as he said, “What, you’re not worried I’ll prank them?”

“Yes. Please swear to me you won’t. But I’d still like to stay.”

Gabriel wavered, staring at the motel door, watching Castiel via the mirror in his peripheral vision. He could make Castiel go with him, leave this city where the hunters were—the vessels. On the other hand … on this other hand, this was the first time Castiel had actually asked to _be_ anywhere. Gabriel could keep an eye on him, right? Make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. If he did that, it should be safe enough.

Even as it happened, Gabriel was calling it a moment of weakness. His shoulders slumped and he sighed, waving a conceding hand. “ _Fine_. And I swear on my name Saint Gabriel that I won’t play tricks on the Winchesters while we’re in town.”

“Thank you, Gabriel.” The warmth in Castiel’s voice, the gratitude in the younger angel’s reflection just before he vanished in a flurry of wings, made it worthwhile. 

 

By the time Castiel found the Winchesters he had started to believe they may have already left the town. It took him two days, because although his Grace was rebuilding there were a lot of places in the city where the family could be staying and he still tired more easily than he should. Finally, however, he caught sight of a child trudging into a motel’s parking lot, head down and hands in pockets, and even in mid-flight overhead he recognized Dean’s soul.

He didn’t reveal himself. There wouldn’t have been anything he could say to convince Dean he was a friend, and he doubted John Winchester might have mentioned him. Even if he had, the point was moot. Only an hour’s watch told Castiel that John had once again left his sons to fend for themselves while he took care of a hunt within the city—possibly a continuation of the one Castiel had met him on. Castiel refused to use their brief crossing as a means by which to win Dean’s trust.

It was important. Before, they had bonded over their ‘deadbeat dads’, and even though Castiel knew, now, that his Father was watching more closely than He let on, it was even more important that if Castiel and Dean ever did meet in the future then the experience wouldn’t be tainted by ‘knowing’ John Winchester. When— _if_ —he and Dean became friends, it would be upon their own merits, and not because John had shown some faint approval or gratitude.

So Castiel watched instead, invisibly and from the sidewalk, while the eight-year-old tried to take care of his brother. He saw the frustration as Dean sacrificed for Sam, the longing for his father to return and take the burden, the resignation that this situation was as it was and there was nothing Dean could do to change it. He saw Sam’s loneliness show through belligerence by testing Dean’s limits, his confusion through anger when he screamed for this or that treat.

Castiel’s chest ached with the desire to do something. The pain was less so than it would have been a week ago, but Castiel felt it nonetheless. When his Grace was restored such emotions would mostly come to him in a different manner than by showing itself in the reactions of his vessel, but they would come nonetheless. In some ways he didn’t dispute the physical showings; they held some kind of proof. They made it real, made it grounded.

It took another two days before Castiel realized there was indeed something he could do, and oddly, it was Gabriel who gave him the idea.


	6. Though my eyes could see

“Castiel. _Castiel_. How could you forget about _Christmas_?” Gabriel stared at him with something very like scandal on his face, though Castiel couldn’t be certain how much of it was because he was genuinely startled or because he was just trying to be annoying.

“I didn’t bother to look at the dates beyond the year.” Not much of import had happened in nineteen eighty-seven; at least not as far as the Winchesters were concerned. The angels had been keeping an casual eye on them, though Castiel hadn’t often guarded them and didn’t remember much happening those times he had.

Then again, that had been back before he had any concept of what humans considered important.

“But _Christmas_ , Castiel!” Gabriel’s hands motioned in the air, up and down, as if the Archangel had no words for this travesty. “The birth of our Father’s Son and you just _forget_?”

“The date is wrong,” Castiel said shortly, a fact which Gabriel ought to know well given his role in the event, but Gabriel waved this excuse away with a ‘pfft’.

“You’ve been going out for walks a lot lately; you’re telling me you never noticed the Christmas decorations everywhere?”

Castiel remained silent, because he _hadn’t_ noticed them, too intent on his charges. Unfortunately, his silence didn’t keep Gabriel from surmising, and a smirk with an oddly dark undercurrent spread over the Archangel’s face.

“Too busy spying on the Winchesters?” Castiel turned away quite deliberately, but Gabriel chuckled behind him and grabbed his arm. “Aw, c’mon, don’t. Look, I’ll promise not to tease you if you help me find some Christmas decorations, ’kay?”

This time when Castiel turned to his brother his expression was disbelieving. “You wish to celebrate Christmas? _Here_?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Well, it’s not like we can’t turn any motel room into a palace if we want, and I’ve just made this place start to seem lived-in.”

“Then simply create some Christmas decorations of your own.”

“It’s not the same,” Gabriel objected, and Castiel’s eyes narrowed. He had seen the Winchesters endure Christmas three times—four if he counted the one in which Dean had been with Lisa, which he didn’t, really. That hadn’t been Christmas with the Winchesters, just Christmas with Dean and no Sam because Castiel hadn’t been able to see what he’d done _wrong_ when he brought Sam back.

The first Christmas hadn’t been much of anything. The Winchesters hadn’t really stopped in the midst of everything, too rushed by urgency, too strained by secrets and trauma and lies. They had utterly ignored the occasion.

The second time … the second time had been the best. It had also been Castiel’s first. It had been leaden with grief, because Ellen and Jo’s deaths had been so recent, and by grimness, because Lucifer walked the Earth; yet the Winchesters—Bobby included this time—had seized the opportunity. There had been no tree, no stockings, no carols. Just three men (Dean joked that Bobby and Castiel only counted as half each) with bottles and good food on Christmas Day and the gifts left silently on pillows to be found once (if) they retired to sleep. Of course, Castiel didn’t sleep, but Bobby had pressed a copy of the photograph taken before Carthage into his hand (looking away to pretend that Castiel couldn’t, wouldn’t, see the rawness in his soul and the tears in his eyes); Dean had bought him a bottle of liquor which the four of them proceeded to drink that very evening (until Castiel was the only one even remotely sober, while wishing he could sink into oblivion as easily as the others); and Sam had taken him to Mass in Sioux Falls, to hear the carols in his Father’s name (and this time it was Castiel who had had to look away).

Castiel hadn’t realized until too late, so he hadn’t had any gifts to give. Instead he had etched an Enochian sigil on the headboard of Sam and Dean’s beds (so they could sleep without dreaming for as long as they stayed at Singer Salvage), and offered himself as a courier for anything Bobby could think of that he wanted (which lasted from then until Castiel had to leave again). He hadn’t been certain what to get Dean other than those sleepless nights, and in the end asked Bobby to teach him how to make pie. It had been lopsided and sunken, and Dean had criticized it until Bobby told him to shut up because Castiel had made it; and then he’d fallen silent and not said anything until dessert was over. But he’d eaten the whole pie.

Castiel had made it pomegranate pie, not apple, because even though it was figs in Eden, not apples, pomegranates were for righteousness and eternal life.

The third Christmas had been the one with Lisa, and Castiel had stood outside hoping Sam might show up, because if Sam showed then Castiel could as well, but if he didn’t then Castiel couldn’t burden Dean further with the reminder of what he had lost. Sam hadn’t showed, but Castiel had seen Dean put out cookies and milk, had heard Ben asked excitedly if that meant Santa Claus was real, had seen Dean’s hesitation and then gruff affirmation.

But he’d known the cookies and milk were for him, so when everyone had gone to bed Castiel had snuck in, unsure at first whether he should touch the cookies and milk or not. Especially when he saw the gift for Sam under the tree. It seemed cruel to take what was offered and leave Sam’s present as another reminder.

Castiel had taken them both and left a pie in their place (a better pie, this time, this one conjured because there hadn’t been time for anything else). Then he’d tracked Sam down to give him the present, but had been called away and hadn’t seen what Sam had done with it.

The fourth Christmas he had felt too guilty, too grief-stricken, to do anything. The Winchesters and Bobby had waited for him, but he had stood there, invisibly, while they laughed and chattered and each pretended not to see the way the others’ eyes would stray to the window as if expecting him to come to the door and knock.

He hadn’t shown himself and he hadn’t taken the gifts left for him on Bobby’s desk, just in case. He hadn’t even left a pie.

So Castiel had experienced four Christmases, and only one of them had been worth anything at all, while the rest were filled with pain and guilt and aching grief. And even that one had been filled with drunkenness to get rid of the pain before things seemed any better. Whatever the case, one thing had shown clear through each of them: Christmas was only worth celebrating when it was with family. When it wasn’t, like that first Christmas, it wasn’t Christmas at all. It was just a holiday that poured salt in the wounds.

“How often have you actually celebrated Christmas, Gabriel?” Castiel demanded.

“I’ve celebrated Christmas!” Gabriel protested, and paused. “Occasionally.” Castiel’s gaze remained steady, penetrating, and eventually the Archangel’s eyes flickered. “Maybe.”

Castiel opened his mouth to tell him it wasn’t worth bothering with, because Christmas was a reminder of everything you didn’t have and everything you’d lost, and all the things you’d done for which there was no forgiveness, and all the faith that had been tainted by reality. Then he stopped, because there was something pleading in Gabriel’s expression, something wistful. Castiel closed his eyes and sighed, and tried not to seem so weary that for a moment he felt like the older brother. “I will celebrate Christmas with you.”

“Really?” Gabriel blinked, and his surprise was so genuine that it almost made Castiel smile. It transformed a moment later into such glee, as the Archangel clapped his hands and grinned, that Castiel lost against the urge and glanced down with a faint huffing chuckle. “Great! I knew you were my favorite brother. So, what do we need, then?”

Gabriel slung his arm over his shoulder and pulled him around toward the door. They exited the motel room like a hulking, lumbering four-legged beast, but Gabriel didn’t release his grip and Castiel, for one, didn’t fight it.

“I’ve watched a lotta people over Christmas,” the Archangel told Castiel as they bypassed the car—clearly Gabriel intended to walk. “But usually only the dicks, so I can punish ’em for being stingy or messing up the Christmas spirit. That doesn’t leave much time for paying attention to what people _do_ for it.”

“I believe there might be wreaths involved,” Castiel said, remembering the one Bobby had had on his door during the season. “But surely you know; so many Christmas traditions are connected to the pagan gods.”

“Most things are connected to the pagan gods,” said Gabriel with a wave. “I can’t keep track of them _all_ , especially since I don’t need them. Come on; let’s take a look on the way to the shopping center.”

It was a strangely enjoyable trip. Gabriel’s enthusiasm so often ran the risk of being annoying, but on this occasion it was so sincere and relieved that Castiel found himself relaxing despite himself. The snowfall in the city was too thin to be anything but slush, but the worst Gabriel did was jump in puddles to splash his brother. Otherwise he spent most of his time pointing out the decorations others had put up and pondering out loud about how they could decorate their room.

It made Castiel think of Dean and Sam, alone in their motel suite, and the angel felt a pang. He knew from previous Christmases that John Winchester had forgotten them constantly. That was when Castiel decided that the least he could do was give them something to eat on the day, even if that something was as simple as pie.

When they reached the shopping centre the Archangel darted around the crowds in a flurry of motion, sometimes dragging Castiel after but most often letting the younger angel follow at his own pace. Sometimes he appeared out of nowhere to shove something in Castiel’s face and demand his approval, which Castiel always gave; he really had no idea what was appropriate more than Gabriel did.

Despite himself the angel found himself looking around and wondering what he could possibly give to two children, one of whom probably hadn’t had a real Christmas in his whole life. Then he’d remember that he had no money, because Jimmy’s wallet had been in the trenchcoat he’d lost before he came back in time, and he wasn’t terribly good at conjuring objects which required that kind of detail. He could have asked Gabriel, but then Gabriel would want to know why he wanted it, and Castiel felt strangely reluctant to have the Archangel know he was thinking about the Winchesters.

All that was rendered moot when Gabriel appeared beside him while he was looking into a window with a baseball glove.

“Figuring out Christmas gifts, eh?” said the Archangel with a grin, but before Castiel could react Gabriel shoved a wad of notes into his hand. “Here. Go nuts.”

And then Gabriel vanished into the crowd again, invisible within the seething mass of souls unless or until he chose to extend his Grace in an overt use of power. Castiel stared down at the money blankly at first, but then it clicked that Gabriel really had just handed him an answer to his problem without even asking for details. The angel felt a surge of gratitude and decided he’d have to think hard on a present for Gabriel in return—just for that. Things were strained between them, yes, but Gabriel wasn’t the only one lonely for his family.

That was probably why the Archangel was going to so much trouble. For once, he had family to share Christmas with.

Castiel considered physical objects for Dean and Sam, but in the end decided that they might be impractical. They travelled a great deal, and anything he gave them was something more they would have to carry with them; what was more, it was unlikely John would accept having such objects in his car, in case they were bespelled. Food would be regarded with suspicion, but if the Winchesters were hungry enough for the warmth and the sustenance, Castiel suspected they would eventually give in. Objects that could be held would be more appropriate for birthdays.

(The thought arose before Castiel could stop to think it over, but when he turned it over he had to admit that if he had the opportunity when the times came, it wasn’t unlikely that Dean and Sam would find themselves with presents.)

If he was lucky, there would be enough time for him to practice cooking, because somehow his original idea of pie had expanded to include a full Christmas lunch; and Bobby’s, while titled a _small_ meal by those present, had still been considerably larger than the average one. He would just have to avoid Gabriel from making off with half of it. Or perhaps use him as a taste-tester, or to conjure the ingredients. (Conjuring food was cheating, Bobby had told him that second Christmas. If he wanted to practice and mess things up, fine, but for _real_ food, he’d have to go out and buy it himself. So Castiel knew what to buy, but for the moment he decided he could practice using conjured ingredients.)

Yet, Dean and Sam’s gift if not out of the way then solved, Castiel found himself contemplating other presents. Gabriel’s was going to be difficult regardless and Bobby’s was easily decided given the state of his library in the future, but it was while looking at an angel statue that Castiel realized with a jolt there was someone else who deserved a gift from him.

After a few moments of thought Castiel concluded there was only one thing that would be appropriate for Anna, and that as her Grace. She would only be two and some months; perhaps that was early enough for her to remember her true self, enough so that Castiel could give her this gift and remind her how to take it back properly when she reached the proper age and maturity. It was several states over, but not out of reach if he took care and rested himself before making the trip.

Even still, he couldn’t help but rest his fingers for a moment on the little winged redheaded statue, sadness in his face and shifting between his Grace and a tightness in his chest. If only he’d chosen the right path sooner … he wouldn’t have turned Anna over to Heaven. She wouldn’t have become so embittered. Perhaps he could have convinced her there was another way.

“Would you like this one, sir?” one of the store-helpers asked, and Castiel blinked and gazed at the woman. Her smile faltered for a split-second, a kind of startled falter that was either combined with awe or uneasiness; Castiel had grown used to it. Dean called it his thousand-yard stare.

“No,” he said, and even to himself his voice sounded hoarse. “It only reminds me of my sister.”

“Oh.” The saleswoman’s expression softened, he hand coming up to fiddle with the necklace Castiel couldn’t quite see under the collar of her shirt. “I’m sorry.”

The angel blinked for a moment, somehow surprised by the woman’s observance in knowing he had been grieving, before deciding he shouldn’t be. Humans could be so very empathic to others’ pain.

He looked closer at the woman—Shirley Thomas—and saw in her soul the sadness of a loss long mourned and accepted. Her sister Patrice, Castiel read, died of leukemia when she was only fifteen and Shirley had been nineteen, old enough to care for Patrice but not to have the right health benefits.

He also saw prayer as Patrice’s time had come, the certainty that she would be safe and happy in Heaven, the faith that Shirley would see her again.

He was humbled by that faith. Heaven was supposed to be a place of solace and joy, and the angels had made it something else. Even him. Castiel no longer believed that he could turn it into what it was meant to be, but in that instant, he wished it could be so nonetheless.

“Your sister rests in the fields of the Lord,” he heard himself saying, and Shirley’s eyes widened. “When you meet again, your parting will have seemed brief, and you will walk together in joy until the end of time.”

“I—I—” Shirley stammered, and before her shock could translate into anger or fear Castiel dipped his head and turned away, sliding easily into the crowd. When he extended a tendril of Grace, he was relieved to feel that it had given way to hope.

 

“All this Christmas stuff is harder than it looks,” Gabriel complained as they walked home, their arms full. Castiel was holding more than Gabriel, who had shoved half his packages at his younger brother the instant they met at the mall’s entrance. “I practically had to _fight_ some woman for the last pudding. I thought Christmas was meant to be a time of cheer and good will!”

“Only outside the malls,” Castiel said, recalling Bobby, Dean and Sam’s copious complaints about the state of shopping centers as Christmas drew nearer.

“Next time I’ll buy things early and put them in stasis,” Gabriel grumbled, but Castiel saw the faint smile edging his mouth and the contentment in his Grace. Strange as it seemed, even though they had been parted half the time, Gabriel was _enjoying_ this.

To his surprise, Castiel found he had too. True, the crush of people had been frustrating and annoying, but the angels found it easier to move through the crowd than people did, and Castiel had been able to come to some conclusions in the meantime. While Gabriel had been fighting for tinsel, Castiel had found a hidden spot and taken a quick flight to a shop for old and rare books he happened to know was only two states away, thanks to Bobby’s recommendation. There, he had found a book, still in its original Hebrew, about demons. It was a book Castiel knew Bobby got eventually, because Sam had given it to him, but it was a resource better had now than later.

Unfortunately Castiel hadn’t been able to find or think of something for Gabriel; he would need to dedicate some thought and time to it.

When they reached the motel room Gabriel had stopped complaining about the awfulness of his shopping experience and had started to regain his enthusiasm. Castiel put down his bags near the door and, before Gabriel could shove a wreath in his arms, retreated to the kitchen to scour the cupboards for any ingredients Gabriel might have already conjured.

They were empty. Apparently the kitchen was for show.

“Hey!” Gabriel appeared in the doorway, already wrestling with a long string of tinsel. “Aren’t you going to give me a hand here?”

“I require ingredients,” Castiel said without looking up from his inspection of the pantry. “The Bobby Singer of the future informed me that Christmas lunch needs to be cooked from the basics, and if I’m to provide a proper meal I will need to practice.”

For several moments there was dead silence, and when Castiel finally looked up he saw Gabriel’s face was contorted between several apparently conflicting emotions. There was startled shock, of course, and incredulity, and such humor as to make the Archangel laugh if he only wasn’t so torn between his other reactions; but beneath all that was something else, and after a moment Castiel realized that Gabriel was touched.

In truth it wasn’t until just then that Castiel had thought of making a meal for themselves, only for Dean and Sam; they were, after all, angels, and didn’t require the sustenance. But Gabriel liked food, and Castiel had to admit that food—when eaten in proper amounts and not as a result of Famine—was enjoyable, especially when consumed with family.

So he waited until Gabriel was able to master his expression into a broad, teasing smirk and lifted his hand. “Well, why didn’t you say you had a thing for the kitchen, bro?”

With a snap there appeared on the counters and in the cupboards all the ingredients Castiel could possibly wish to make just about anything. “Thank you, Gabriel.”

“Hey, don’t thank _me_. I’m trusting you not to poison us by accident on Christmas Day.” With a grin and a wink Gabriel vanished from the doorframe. Castiel looked around at the now fully-stocked kitchen and, unaware of the tiniest smile on his lips, began his practice preparations.

 

On the twenty-third Castiel realized he would need to plan the next two days very, very well. Firstly, there was the time he and Gabriel were to spend together; Gabriel had apparently insisted on some kind of party, and although Castiel had no idea what the Archangel was planning he didn’t have it in him to voice objections. It was only fortunate that the older angel planned to throw the party on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas _Day_ Castiel would not only have to cook and deliver Dean and Sam’s meal, but he would have to cook the one for himself and Gabriel as well, not to mention visit Anna. He had already retrieved her Grace from the magnificent oak tree and spent far longer there than he should have; so much longer, in fact, that Gabriel had returned from one of his ‘errands’ before Castiel.

Fortunately, Gabriel had only smirked and seemed to assume he’d been spying on the Winchesters, who were indeed still in town. Apparently John’s hunt had expanded beyond the bounds Castiel had assumed.

In any case, by the time Christmas Eve had arrived Castiel was both thankful he no longer had to sleep and that there were some things he could make beforehand to, as Gabriel had said, ‘put into stasis’. They would be just as fresh as they went in, so even though they were a day old Castiel didn’t see much wrong with this method.

On the twenty-third Gabriel was restless beyond words. He had been for the past week, true, and even his insistence on putting up the Christmas decorations ‘the hard way’ hadn’t taken up all his time, especially since Castiel had spotted him cheating in a fit of frustration when the Christmas lights refused to work properly. Afterward the Archangel had either been out on his ‘errands’ or wandering in and out of the kitchen, stealing food from Castiel.

“You’re practicing, aren’t you?” Gabriel had said when Castiel glared after finding half the dough for one of the pies missing. “You can’t get better if you don’t get any feedback from the people you’re going to serve your food to!”

Then the Archangel had grinned cheekily, Castiel had sighed, and thereafter made extra so Gabriel could stuff his face without leaving Castiel with a severe shortage of ingredients. Of course, Gabriel had then made good on his words; there was at least one day in which the two of them spent the whole day in the kitchen, Gabriel with a running commentary of Castiel’s food while Castiel went about his practice with a steady hand and longsuffering patience.

Privately Castiel had to admit Gabriel’s judgments were useful, but he wasn’t going to tell the Archangel that.

Sometime in the earliest hours of Christmas Eve morning, Gabriel appeared in the kitchen with a satchel over his shoulder and clapped his hands. “Alright, Cassy, time for the party!”

Castiel frowned. “It isn’t Christmas Eve yet.” Gabriel had assured him the ‘party’ would be happening on the evening before Christmas, not the day or morning or anything else.

“Only on this side of the world,” Gabriel told him, taking the bowl out of his hands and gripping Castiel’s arm. “Don’t fight me, Castiel; I’m flying for both of us, here!”

That was all the warning Castiel got before Gabriel spread his wings. The journey was swift and Castiel was, momentarily, too startled to help; but then he joined his wingbeats to his brother’s and the drag eased.

They touched down in a narrow alley in a city in Australia. Castiel looked around with a frown. It was still light, but the sun was approaching the end of the day; and it was warm, enough that Castiel noted it even if he didn’t feel it. “Why are we here?”

“Trust me, bro,” was all Gabriel told him, taking his sleeve and pulling him along down the street the alley intersected. Vaguely irritated but curious despite himself, Castiel followed along after the Archangel, and in not long at all they came to a park. Nor were they alone; in fact, there were people everywhere, teeming along the street until the cars were slowed, gathering on the slopes of the hill. They had laid down blankets and set up chairs, and were chattered happily to one another, waiting for something.

“Over here!” Gabriel slipped between people so smoothly that they hardly noticed he was there, even without being invisible. Castiel followed. Dean had given him the impression that personal space was important, but in this place, right now, very few people seemed bothered by it. Even those areas ‘claimed’ by the blankets encroaching upon one another, so that people were packed onto the lawn like voluntary sardines.

It wasn’t long before Castiel lost Gabriel, but he paused for a moment to glance around. He wasn’t going to admit it, but all the people were somehow unnerving; not because of their proximity, but because of the sheer size of the crowd and the never-ending buzz of conversation between souls.

In the end it took a surge of Grace before Castiel spotted Gabriel at the height of the hill, waving and grinning and having procured a stick of floaty pink candy from somewhere. The younger angel hurried toward him and took a spot beside the Archangel, who was leaning back against the stone wall bordering the park’s edge.

“Told you it’d be a party,” Gabriel said cheerfully, indicating the crowd of people on the slopes below them. The park was a teeming, moving wash of color and people, right down to the river at the bottom. There were even people on the water and on the opposite shore. Giggling children darted in-between chairs and over blankets, criss-crossing the narrow paths marked out between sections of lawn.

“What _is_ this?” Castiel asked, uncertain and a bit overwhelmed. So many souls all in one place, and nothing like at the mall; there, the general tone had been of urgency and rush, of frustration and ill-will because they were all cramped together. Here, no one seemed to care. They talked and laughed and shared food. The hum in the air was pure happiness and hope. Against his will Castiel felt a lump in his throat.

“Carols by Candlelight,” Gabriel answered, looking out over the park below them and his tone marked with careful casualness. “It started in this country, so I figured—what better place to partake, huh?”

“It isn’t dark enough for candles,” Castiel pointed out, but Gabriel only grinned back at him, wagging his finger.

“Not _yet_ , bro. Not _yet_. Just be patient. Now, d’you want some food?”

Castiel was about to refuse the floating-candy stick Gabriel thrust toward him, but then with a sigh he accepted it and wondered just how he was meant to eat without it flying all over the place.

He was still wrestling with this question, ignoring Gabriel as the Archangel laughed at his attempts to eat without getting the ‘fairy floss’ all over his face, when a voice from the stage beside the lake boomed out over the park, welcoming everyone present. The crowd’s chatter eased but didn’t entirely subside, and Castiel didn’t really pay attention as the woman on the microphone went through apparent formalities.

Rather, now that the crowd had seemed to calm slightly, he cast his Grace out to search for supernatural beings in the park. Surely with this many people around there would be _something_ looking for prey. It wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be; the crowd’s energy had calmed, but come to a point as well, tense and focused and excited.

A moment later Castiel felt Gabriel’s elbow in his side, and the angel cast his brother a look. “None of that, Cassy,” Gabriel told him, still leaning back against the wall and now throwing salted nuts in the air to catch in his mouth. “We’re on _vacation_. Or holiday, as the Commonwealth says.”

“I don’t see the point of this,” Castiel confessed, returning his attention to the stage as music began to play and a singer took control of the microphone. Then the angel blinked; he recognized the song, so very unlike the music Dean played and yet not quite the same as the hymns Sam had taken him to hear at Mass. Rather, it was a song he had heard a choir singing on the street only a few days before—a silly little thing about snow and reindeer.

The band wasn’t singing it alone. After the first few lines the sound of voices rippled across the park, from front to back and all the sides as every person in the park joined the chorus. Many of them were terrible, many of them only decent, some excellent but untrained; a myriad of different people from every age, creed and ethnicity who sang loudly, sometimes not very clearly because of laughter, and didn’t particularly care at the mistakes.

The next song was closer to a hymn, and somehow Castiel wasn’t expecting it; he started when it began, blinking and glancing at Gabriel. The Archangel had his eyes closed, his head resting against the wall, but when he felt Castiel’s gaze he looked back at his brother. There was something in his gaze; something even the Gabriel of the future had only shown when he was pressed just that hard that his barriers broke. A something that wasn’t a trickster, wasn’t a lie—a vestige of the brother of which Castiel barely remembered, because he’d been too young to know Gabriel well before the Fall had changed everything.

It sent a shiver down Castiel’s spine and lightened his chest at once.

“Why?” was all Castiel thought to ask, bewildered and touched and chest gripped with some mix of grief and awful, painful joy. Gabriel shrugged without shifting away from the wall.

“Call it a present to Dad, if you want. Figured you’d appreciate something like this, after that whole Armageddon shtick. ’Sides, maybe if we’re lucky Dad might up and listen.”

Castiel didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t. Instead he turned back to the crowd and listened, spellbound. There didn’t seem to be a pattern to the songs; some seemed to be more about winter, which seemed odd in a country whose Christmas was in summer, but there were also songs about hot Christmases too. There were songs about presents, and candy, and all the commercial things Christmas had begun; but interspersed with those were many, many songs about Christ.

It wasn’t until Gabriel nudged his arm that Castiel realized it was starting to grow dark. When the angel glanced over it was to find Gabriel holding out a candle impaled by an up-turned plastic cup in each hand. The Archangel gave him a rather crooked grin and held one out, and if Gabriel’s eyes were strangely shiny Castiel chose not to mention it.

Instead he took the candle with a nod. With a pass of Gabriel’s hand it was lit, and when Castiel turned his attention back to the park at large he was startled to see pinpricks of light glowing here and there in the restless, shadowed movement of the crowd. As night fell deeper, more and more candles were lit, until the people lifted their voices only to the glow of candlelight which blanketed the park in a golden wash.

Castiel listened and watched, spellbound. The harmony was physically imperfect, but metaphysically there was such a _union_ in the crowd that it reminded the angel of Heaven—before everything. He hadn’t known so many humans at once could be so at one with each other in such a way.

Abruptly Gabriel’s voice sounded out beside him, quiet at first and then rising with the chorus, resonant and light and pitch-perfect. It made Castiel jump and then reminded him so sharply of times long past, those few distant times Castiel could remember, that the younger angel’s chest clenched and his eyes burned. Gabriel had so enjoyed singing. Had sung so frequently, in fact, that he could go centuries without _speaking_ a word. Any number of the youngest angels used to wait for those moments when the Archangel would do so, and then stop whatever they were doing just to listen. Castiel had forgotten what the sound of his voice could be like, and even this pale human imitation put a lump in his throat.

The singing around them faltered for a moment, people craning their heads to see who that was. When Castiel looked at his brother Gabriel’s eyes were closed, his chin lifted and an expression of such raw wistfulness on his face that Castiel had to look away.

With a hard swallow the angel stared down at the candle dripping wax into the cup instead, and when he blinked he wasn’t entirely surprised to feel the warmth of tears on his cheeks despite his efforts. How long had it been since the Host had lifted their voices in song for no other reason than in worship or love? It had felt like eternity for Castiel.

He couldn’t imagine how long it must have felt like to Gabriel.

Part of him wanted to join with the Archangel, but the rest of him was too paralyzed. How could he possibly sing in the worship of his Father, after what he had done? How could he, after being so faithful and then losing faith, and then regaining it only to fall to pride? To proclaim himself God? How could he tarnish Gabriel’s action with his presumptuousness?

The song ended. The next one began. This time Gabriel’s voice started with the rest. Halfway through it Castiel felt eyes on him and turned to look at his brother. The Archangel stared at him even as he sang, but his eyes were too shadowed to truly see even though they still gleamed in the candlelight.

It still seemed as though Castiel read understanding on the Archangel’s face, and it suddenly occurred to him that this was probably the very first time Gabriel had sung in worship of their father since he had left.

Castiel closed his eyes on the last strains of the carol and took a breath. When the next began he read words in the contented souls around him, and he joined his voice to theirs. His was deep to Gabriel’s light, threading beneath the Archangel’s in harmony as Gabriel’s soared. He felt surprise and amazement ripple through the people around them, and knew that no one within fifty feet of them sang at all; but they kept their Grace from their voices and those in the rest of the park were left unaffected by them.

Castiel was glad. It wasn’t anything like the choir of Heaven, could not possibly be, but to sing with so many others made him feel less alone. The chorus imbued the whole of the park with such radiance that it glowed with their souls almost more than with their candles.

When he opened his eyes he found not a few people were staring, and for an instant wondered if perhaps they had revealed too much, if their wings were casting shadows on the wall. He faltered.

A moment later he felt Gabriel’s hand grip his arm, painfully tight even for an angel, and though his brother’s voice never wavered there was something desperate in the touch.

With another clench in his chest Castiel picked up the words again. He met the eyes of a little girl in her father’s arms, watching him with awed delight, and tried to summon a smile. Presumably he managed it, because the little girl grinned and added her voice to the rest, and as if that was the sign the others around them stirred and rejoined the chorus themselves. It didn’t keep some carolers from looking around at them still, but there was a sudden, if not unexpected, upsurge of joy and peace around them.

Castiel closed his eyes, his chest vibrating and music in his ears. He basked in the jubilation of all these souls, in the feel of his brother’s Grace relaxed and blissful beside him, and for a while forgot all that he had done.


	7. I still was a blind man

The angels left Australia only after the Carols by Candlelight began to end, after the crowd had dispersed and the organizers started to pack up. By that time it was early morning in America and they were both pensive enough that neither asked questions of the other when they went their separate ways.

Castiel, after having all but resigned himself to making Gabriel’s Christmas present the meal he was apparently going to make, had finally thought of an alternative. It wasn’t a thing he could buy from just any store and it took him longer to find than he wanted; but in the end, by mid-afternoon, the angel smuggled it back into the motel room and hide it under wards. Gabriel had spent the past week not-so-discreetly searching for presents, but Castiel wasn’t certain if the Archangel believed Castiel simply hadn’t gotten it yet or that he had managed to hide it just that well. In any case, Gabriel had stopped looking, but there was no point in being incautious.

Then Castiel had quietly gone back to some last-minute practice. He wasn’t sure where Gabriel was, and didn’t look. It was now Christmas Eve in America and they would likely be together for most of tomorrow, after all. Perhaps Gabriel had some last-minute preparations of his own.

Castiel worked hard that night. Just before dawn, he looked around at his preparations in the kitchen, mentally checking off the food. Each of them were, to the best of Castiel’s memory, both Christmas-appropriate and either Dean or Sam’s favorites. It was going to be difficult to carry everything at once without expending Grace, and Castiel didn’t want to draw attention, so the angel took each tray one at a time, flying them the short distance to Dean and Sam’s motel room.

Both of the boys were asleep, Sam in one of the two beds and Dean slumped on the couch. The television was on. After a brief hesitation Castiel chose not to turn it off in case the difference in sound woke Dean up. Instead the angel set down the first tray and left.

Three trips later, Dean was stirring, instinctively taking a deep breath. His eyelids fluttered. Castiel put down the final tray and slid smoothly into the spiritual plane before the boy could see him.

It was only after Castiel glanced at Sam to see whether he was waking up too that the angel registered the huge moose plush-toy the four-year-old was curled around. It was almost as big as Sam himself. Castiel blinked and his gaze snapped toward where Dean was stretching. A miniature plush impala—the animal—fell out of the crook of the boy’s elbow, and Dean froze, looking down at it with a mix of surprise and consternation.

“Kids deserve something _tangible_ on Christmas, don’t you think, bro?” Gabriel’s voice sounded casually from behind Castiel. The younger angel exhaled through his nose and turned to step back to where his brother was leaning against the wall.

“You’ve been watching me.”

Gabriel shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course I have, Castiel.” His tone was as dismissive as the gesture, but his gaze was fixed on Dean as the boy shuffled away from the impala and made for Sam’s room, then stopped short on the threshold when he spotted the moose. “Their father’s earned some just desserts.”

“Gabriel—”

“I didn’t give him any, don’t twist your panties,” interrupted the Archangel before Castiel could censure him. “But he deserves it. Forgetting about his sons on Christmas? Over _revenge_? It’s something—”

He fell silent then without finishing his sentence, but Castiel finished it for him. _It’s something our brothers would do._

_It’s something Michael is_ doing _._

In silence the angels watched as Dean shook Sam fearfully, one hand on the moose to yank it away except that his brother was clutching it too tightly to allow it.

“Dean?” Sam mumbled, then yawned. Then he seemed to realize he was holding something and stopped, his wide eyes falling to the plush. A delighted smile spread over his face and he rubbed his cheek against the soft brown fur. “Thanks, Dean!”

“It wasn’t me,” Dean said awkwardly after a pause, as if the boy was debating whether to take credit or not. “I got one too. And there’s food.” He gestured back toward the impala on the couch and the Christmas meal on the table. Sam’s eyes followed the motion and he squealed.

“Santa bringed us food, Dean!”

“Santa doesn’t exist, Sammy,” Dean muttered, but even he looked unsure. The tightness of paranoia around his eyes was easing, and when he glanced back at the main room his eyes were filled with longing.

Sam had no such reservations; he scrambled down off the bed, the moose’s dangling hooves dragging the floor as he scurried toward the table. “Does too, Dean! Look, he bringed presents!”

“Brought,” Dean corrected, following his brother and snatching at his hand as Sam reached out for a piece of pie. “Don’t touch it, Sammy, it might be dangerous.”

Sam looked up at his big brother with a mix of consternation and worry. “But Santa bringed—brought it, Dean.”

Dean hesitated. Gabriel ambled over to him and gave him a poke in the shoulder. “You might as well,” he told the boy, his voice soft, persuasive and edged with the faintest thrum of Grace. The voice of the Messenger. “What kind of monster have _you_ ever heard of which brings food and presents on Christmas Day, anyway?”

Dean sighed and released his brother’s hand. “Let me try something first, okay? Then if something happens to me in half an hour you ring nine-one-one. If something doesn’t, then we can eat the rest. ’Kay?”

Gabriel snorted. “Paranoid brat,” he muttered, but Castiel saw the darkness in his eyes and knew the Archangel was again thinking of just desserts.

Sammy peered up at his brother from beneath a furrowed brow and with a pout twisting his mouth, but when he judged by the look on Dean’s face that he wasn’t just out to get food before Sam, he nodded. “’Kay. Whatcha gonna eat first?”

The older boy surveyed the laid table, and to absolutely no surprise on Castiel’s part he made for the cranberry pie. Castiel could practically hear Dean’s reasoning: at least if it was poisoned, he got to eat something really good before he did, right?

The boy didn’t eat a whole slice; just cut off a piece and chewed it slowly, a concentrated look on his face as if he was trying to divine any odd tastes. Castiel watched with something approaching nervousness, and then checked himself for the feeling. He’d been practicing all week and Gabriel hadn’t had many criticisms for him at the end of it. Surely the pie would be edible.

The angel was still relieved when Dean, looking surprised, pronounced, “It’s really good.”

“Does that mean I can have some?” Sammy asked eagerly, but Dean shook his head.

“Half an hour, I said, Sammy.”

“But it’ll all be cold by then!” Sam whined, clutching his moose and sticking his lower lip out, his eyes dangerously moist.

“And if you get sick from it Dad’ll kill me,” Dean snapped back, sitting on the couch and picking up the remote. “C’mon, let’s watch some cartoons, and if I’m still okay in half an hour we’ll eat.”

For a minute it looked as if Sam was going to refuse, but Castiel moved to the boy and rested his hand on his head.

“It won’t do any harm to wait a while,” he said to the boy. “Don’t fight on Christmas.” He may not have been a messenger angel, but a thread of Grace still took his message across, and after another tense moment Sam sniffled and crawled onto the couch.

“Nice one, bro,” Gabriel murmured as Sam picked up the impala and pressed himself against Dean’s side, pushing the plush-toy onto his brother’s lap. Dean took it and put it down on his other side—but he didn’t let go of it, either, Castiel noted.

Sam let himself be distracted by the cartoons, but Dean remained tense, his grip on the impala tight. Half an hour passed. Then an hour. Finally Sam said in a small voice, “Dean? Are you okay?”

Dean jumped a little, so concentrated that he was startled by the sudden voice. He looked down at Sam and exhaled slowly, and then managed a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. So … you hungry?”

Sam’s face lit up with his smile and he was out of the seat so fast he elbowed Dean in the ribs. With an ‘oof!’ Dean rubbed his side, grimacing, but he slid off the sofa as well and came to where Sam was standing, puzzled, by the food. The little boy reached out a hand to prod the steaming roast and then turned to his brother, awe on his face. “It’s still hot.”

“’Course it is,” Dean said without missing a beat. “Santa brought it, didn’t he?”

Sam grinned and scrambled onto a chair, pulling another one close so he could sit his moose down. Dean took the seat opposite him, still just a tad wary, very confused, but now with hope shining in his eyes. Castiel, however, glanced at Gabriel and raised an eyebrow. The Archangel only spread his hands, not attempting to belay the small grin lurking around his mouth.

“What? You forgot that food gets cold.”

Castiel tilted his head and looked back at the pair of homeless sons sitting at the table, all paranoia already forgotten in favor of piling their plates with food, with giggles, prods and teases. The sight simultaneously made Castiel’s chest clench and his stomach soar, and he had to lower his eyes.

That still didn’t stop him from speaking. “… Thank you, Gabriel.”

At first he didn’t think Gabriel was going to answer, but then he did, his tone indifferent except for the undertone of warmth. “No problem, bro.”

 

The angels stayed to watch Dean and Sam until they had finished their breakfast and retired to the couch to watch TV, sated and glowing with contentment. There was still more than enough food left over to take care of meals for the rest of the day; Castiel had made sure of that. In fact, there was probably enough for tomorrow—the angel had been judging quantity based on what Dean and Sam would eat as adults, which was significantly different to what two children could eat in one sitting.

Eventually, once it became clear that Castiel could stay and watch the pair for the whole day, Gabriel dragged on his brother’s sleeve. “Come on, Castiel, what about _our_ presents?”

For the first time since before breakfast Castiel looked over at his brother, wrenching his mind away from wherever it had been. The Archangel wasn’t so blind as to miss the guilt and grief resonating in his brother’s Grace, even if he couldn’t pinpoint the source thanks to his own wards.

“Very well,” Castiel agreed after a moment, once he had caught up, and then in a flurry of wings he left the motel room. Gabriel rolled his eyes and followed.

An instant later they were both in their own motel room again, and the Archangel clapped his hands, grinning. “I’ll go first, then you, Cassy, and then we can eat!”

“I still have to finish preparing our meal,” Castiel pointed out, but Gabriel waved this fact away.

“Presents always come first. C’mon!” He made for the kitchen, motioning for his bemused brother to follow. Castiel did, wondering what could be in the kitchen that might constitute _his_ present given he had been in there all week. Then again, it wouldn’t be unlike Gabriel to hide Castiel’s present right where he was spending all his time, even though Castiel wasn’t even looking for it.

Gabriel stopped by the pantry, opened it and pulled out something fabric. He shook it out, beaming. “Ta-da!”

Castiel blinked. It was an apron. A pink apron with white frills and bright, happy yellow writing on the front, saying ‘Kiss the cook!’ Castiel took it a little dubiously, but Gabriel handed it over with an enthusiastic flourish.

“I figured you’d need one, since you’re turning all domestic,” said the Archangel, and though his tone was teasing his eyes were oddly bright and less mischievous than they should have been given the nature of the gift.

Castiel held up the apron and looked down at it. It wasn’t, he had to admit, something he had considered, but it was prudent. He had frequently dirtied himself by accident while practicing for Dean and Sam’s meal, and though it wasn’t exactly an inconvenience for an angel who could simply make the mess go away, it would certainly be useful to prevent spills in the first place—especially if he found himself in a position where he was unable to simply vanished the stains. A very practical gift.

“Thank you, Gabriel,” he said, surprise and pleasure in his voice in equal amounts.

“Look in the pockets,” Gabriel sang out, still grinning; but the expression was broader this time, marked with definite amusement. It was that which made Castiel eye him warily. Somehow the younger angel got the feeling that this next thing was something he _knew_ Castiel would object to and had gotten anyway.

Sure enough, when the angel looked in the pockets, he found a glossy new magazine. It wasn’t ‘Busty Asian Beauties’, but it was similar, and Castiel gave Gabriel an unimpressed look.

“Hey, it’s quality,” Gabriel protested, lifting his hands. “I even got you a subscription. Thought you might need a lead up to strippers for next time.”

“There won’t be a next time, Gabriel,” Castiel said flatly, but he still couldn’t muster the same amount of irritation as usual.

“Just wait,” Gabriel said with a wink, unapologetic and unworried at Castiel’s reaction. He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Now where’s my present?”

With a second look Castiel hung the apron carefully on the back of the nearest chair and then took Gabriel out into the main room. He broke the wards on his bed-side table (not that he’d ever actually used the bed, of course) and pulled Gabriel’s present out, still wrapped in the purple tissue paper the store had used.

Eagerly Gabriel took it and tugged the paper off without regard for how it tore, and in the end stood there holding a plain light-blue candle, a look of bafflement on his face. “Er … thanks, Cassy?”

“Light it,” Castiel told him, and after a moment and a dubious look Gabriel did so with a snap. Castiel took the candle and blew it out. The wick flickered, a second later the candle relit, and Castiel handed it back to Gabriel. “So that you are never again without light.”

Gabriel stared at the candle for a moment, his eyes wide. He must have been familiar with the kind of candle it was; it was a _trick_ candle, after all. Castiel had only found them in joke shops. But for an instant the look on his face and the tenor in his Grace resonated so deeply as one that it was impossible to deny he understood Castiel’s intent in getting it. When he answered his voice was just the faintest bit unsteady. “Thanks, Castiel.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was a moment of comfortable silence while Gabriel watched the gently flickering flame, but then he shook himself and smirked. “Well, all this gift-giving makes me hungry! When’s dinner, Cassy?”

“This evening,” Castiel told him, turning to make for the kitchen so he could start work. Even with what he had already set aside, it would take a while, he knew—if only because Gabriel would be in and out to steal things.

“Well, hurry it up, I’ve got a craving for pudding.”

Castiel didn’t answer, but he glanced over his shoulder just before he entered the kitchen. Gabriel had snapped up a base and was gently fitting the candle into it, his expression soft and eyes on the flame.

 

Unlike the meal for Dean and Sam, the food for the angels disappeared very quickly. Mostly because of Gabriel; angels, of course, weren’t in the least bit constricted by the stomach’s confines, so Gabriel could have gone on eating for as long as Castiel chose to go on cooking. The younger angel wouldn’t have eaten anything himself, except that Gabriel pushed a plate at him and told him to.

The lion’s share went to the Archangel, however, and Castiel couldn’t deny to himself the warmth he felt knowing that his brother was enjoying the food so much. He hadn’t expected to feel such emotions so quickly It made him feel nervous and guilty in turns: nervous because of what sort of a precursor it might be, and guilty that he could simply forget all he had done in such a short amount of time—even if for a few hours. (More like a day, he admitted to himself, if he included the caroling earlier in the morning.)

At about nine o’clock Gabriel announced that the rest of the food was for tomorrow and if Castiel wanted to keep on baking he, of course, would do absolutely nothing to stop him, but for the moment he had some other presents to deliver; and then the Archangel vanished without any further explanation. From what Gabriel had previously said, Castiel suspected he was going to check up on some other just desserts he had been delivering for the Christmas period. Brutal as some of those punishments were, Castiel found he couldn’t regret it too badly. If not for the fact that it would cause Dean and Sam pain, he might have allowed his brother to offer some to John Winchester as well.

Besides, this gave Castiel the chance to deliver his other present. This was something he had kept better warded than Gabriel’s gift. The Archangel had made it clear that he knew what Anael had done, but Castiel still didn’t want him to know Castiel knew where she was—or that he planned to gift her Grace to her.

There were some other similar decisions Castiel would have to make, possibly soon, and he wasn’t sure how his brother would react to them at all.

As in the other timeline, Anna’s Grace swirled in a small glass pendant. Castiel put it over his head, tucked it under his shirt and vanished with a soft flutter of wings. A moment later he was in a room—the room of a child, pastel pink and yellow, with a bright bedspread and toys sitting on a box and the window-seat. Anna was a small lump under the sheets, and for a moment Castiel stood at the foot of her cot.

There wasn’t a sound in the house; when he extended his senses he heard Anna’s parents talking downstairs, but with a gesture he warded the door so no sound from inside would make it through. Then he took a step around the cot.

Anna stirred, her big eyes opening and coming to rest on him. A moment later she sat up, staring in a way Castiel found familiar—mostly because he did it so often himself.

“I know you,” she said softly, her voice young and a bit slurred with a lisp and the sounds a child of two could not yet make with skill. The statement would have made Castiel’s heart leap, if he’d allowed it. The next actually did, despite himself, the note of resigned fear in her voice almost painful. “Are you here to punish me for Father?”

“No. I have a gift for you,” he said to the fallen angel, and took the pendant from around his neck to hold out to her. Anna stared at him for a moment before her gaze fell to the chain and the glowing locket cupped in his hand. And then a moment later she looked up at him again, her eyes wide with curiosity and confusion.

“Why? Isn’t Father angry with me?”

It took a moment for Castiel to answer, because he could not lie and even though he didn’t think their Father was angry with Anna, he couldn’t say for sure. “I don’t believe so.”

Anna’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes relaxed and she reached out to pull herself upright using the bars of the cot. She touched the pendant, tracing the lines of light and the patterns her Grace made. “It’s pretty. It’s mine?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “It has always been yours. I … _hope_ you will not need it, but if you do, you need only smash the glass.” He was going to leave it at that, but then added, “But—make sure no one is nearby if you do. It might hurt them.”

The little girl’s fingers kept moving over the necklace, but her mouth turned down in a frown. “I don’t wanna break it. It’s pretty.”

“It will protect you,” Castiel assured her. “But only use it in great need.” He picked up the chain and drew it over her head, even though the chain was long enough that the pendant fell to her knees. She caught it and held it up to her face, staring into the light of the Grace. Then she looked up at him again, the white light illuminating her face until it seemed as if her eyes glowed. Eyes far too old for a child. It was clear that she truly did remember something—even if vestiges, impressions.

“You’re my brother, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yes,” Castiel admitted after a moment, looking away and trying not to remember the last time he’d seen her. He knew what Michael had done, thanks to Dean, but the last time _Castiel_ had seen her, she had insisted the only way to stop Lucifer was to kill Sam. The last time Castiel had seen her, he had already betrayed her and known that betrayal was wrong.

Pudgy fingers stretched up into his vision and Castiel returned his gaze to his fallen sister with a blink. She stood on the very edge of her cot, reaching up with a scowl, and after a moment Castiel realized she wanted something from him. Awkwardly he leaned down, but she only touched his cheek, leaning on the frame of her cot with her Grace clutched to her chest.

The contact made something in his resonate, and he had a flash of a memory that wasn’t his—a memory that was one of Jimmy’s, the remnants of the man from the future. A memory of a little girl with golden hair reaching out to touch her daddy’s face. Castiel swallowed.

“You’re not meant to be here,” Anna said, sad and resigned and a bit awed. “You’d be in trouble if they knew. Why are you here? Aren’t you scared?” _She_ sounded frightened at the last, her words tumbling out one after another and eyes wide with near-panic. “Aren’t you scared Father will be mad?”

Castiel caught her clenching hand and then didn’t know what to do with it; so he simply held it to keep her from scraping his face with her fingernails. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe Father is the one who would be mad. I think—” He stopped for a moment, but Anna remained silent, watching and waiting and eager for his words. He looked into her eyes and saw fear, not understood but constantly felt. And he saw burgeoning hope.

His fallen sister. Fallen like him. In the end, he thought their Father would not have approved of her actions, but God had saved Castiel, twice, when Castiel was twice guilty of the crime of loving humanity too much. At least, He had intervened directly. And possibly He had done so a third time, when Castiel was sent back in time.

Perhaps it could be counted an intervention as well, that Anna had been found by the Winchesters first and been able to regain her memories and her Grace. And her actions, in the end, had not nearly been as bad as his.

“I think our Father would be proud to know you love your parents,” he said softly.

Anna’s eyes widened, but her voice was very small as she said, “Really?”

“Yes.” Castiel returned her hand to the edge of the cot’s frame, but Anna held on, her fingers closing around his thumb—so small that it was about all they could grasp. After a moment Castiel let her keep it. “I don’t think He would be angry at you for loving your family.”

_“Next to Sam, you and Bobby are the closest things I have to family—you are like a_ brother _to me.”_

Castiel’s chest clenched and something of the memory must have shown on his face, because he felt Anna’s fingers following the lines on his cheek again.

“Do you have a family, brother?” she asked.

“Yes,” Castiel answered, and his voice was a little bit huskier than usual. “And I _know_ our Father does not hate me for that. I believe He … He wouldn’t hate you either.”

For a few moments Anna was silent, but her eyes were bright, and they looked at one another for long minutes. Then she smiled and the expression made her whole face glow, her bright red hair lit gold and orange in the light of her Grace, her eyes sparkling. “Merry Christmas, brother.”

She stood on her toes, and since she couldn’t reach his forehead the fallen angel kissed Castiel on the nose instead. Then she sank back down onto her bed again with a yawn, rubbing her eyes.

“Tuck me in please?” she asked drowsily, pulling at the blankets she’d disturbed when she sat up. After a moment’s hesitation Castiel straightened and reached into the cot to pull up the blankets, waiting for Anna to snuggle underneath them before he pulled them up over her and tucked them into the sides of the mattress, following some sense-memory of things Jimmy had done in the future that wouldn’t be.

“Thank you,” Anna murmured, her eyes already closed but one hand still gripped tightly around her Grace.

Castiel hovered for a moment longer, but then whispered, “Merry Christmas, sister.”

And a moment later he was gone.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 


	8. Though my mind could think

“You’ll be happy to know that Daddy Winchester let the baby Winchesters keep their Christmas presents,” Gabriel told Castiel when he arrived back at their motel room sometime the next morning. The Archangel was lounging on his bed, channel surfing with barely a moment between each, and didn’t lift his eyes toward his brother. To Castiel’s relief, he didn’t seem inclined to ask where Castiel had been, either.

“ _He_ wasn’t happy, of course,” the Archangel went on. “Ripped Dean-o a new one for eating the food, even though it was _obviously_ not poisoned. Only stopped when Sammy started crying about insulting Santa. Would’ve gone over better if he’d brought presents himself, but ’parently he forgot it was Christmas.”

He eyed his brother thoughtfully. “You sure he’s off-limits? I’d hate to see a good opportunity go to waste.”

“You can’t give John Winchester just desserts, Gabriel,” Castiel said flatly, and Gabriel pouted.

“Spoilsport. So!” He threw the remote control down and leapt to his feet with a clap. “You ready to go then, bro? There’s no one else for me to punish in this town. At least, no one _fun_.”

Castiel opened his mouth and then shut it again. He hadn’t put any kind of tracking sigil on the Impala. If the Winchesters left, Castiel wouldn’t be able to tell where they were without using enough Grace to draw attention.

Gabriel noticed his hesitation and rolled his eyes, flapping a hand at him. “Oh, go and say goodbye to your poor orphan Annies. But when you come back, we’re going. I’ll even leave the room behind as a present to the motel for putting up with us for so long.”

Castiel half-expected the Archangel to follow him, or at least suspect what Castiel planned, but it was an opportunity the younger angel couldn’t afford to miss. With a snap of his wings he left the motel room and landed, invisible, on the street outside the motel where the Winchesters were saying. The Impala was already idling at the curb; Dean and Sam were inside, waiting, the former looking sulky and the latter with tear-marks on his cheeks, clutching his moose. Dean’s impala-plush, Castiel saw, was gripped tightly in the older boy’s white-knuckled hands, but next to his thigh where it wouldn’t be seen at a casual glance.

John Winchester was inside, Castiel saw with a glance toward the office, settling their bill. Swiftly Castiel moved off the pavement and stooped under the car, reaching out to trace an Enochian sigil on in a place no one was likely to see unless they planned to dismantle the whole car. 

He withdrew as John jogged from the office and slid behind the wheel, and watched as the Impala drove off, hardly able to see either boy’s heads over the top of the backseat.

And he wondered, again, what some little changes might bring. __

“So anywhere you want to go to, Castiel? Or are you just going to let me, your wonderful and handsome older brother, pick the destinations?”

They were once again in the car and they were driving Castiel didn’t know where. His mind was distant, cast out to follow the glow of the tracking sigil on the Impala. Gabriel’s voice made him blink and come back to himself, and he glanced toward his brother, radio-music playing around them. It was loud enough that it seemed almost a physical being in the car with them, and Castiel knew it wasn’t any radio within distance; still, it didn’t harm their ability to communicate.

“Why are we still using the car, Gabriel?” he asked instead, resigned and irritated in equal turns. “We can fly.”

“Castiel.” Gabriel gave him a look somewhere between chiding and pouting. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were getting bored of me.”

“I dislike cars, Gabriel,” Castiel said flatly. “They’re slow and … confining.”

He didn’t mean to falter, but hadn’t been able to help it at the flash of memory.

_“What was that like?”_

_“Uh … slow. Confining.”_

_“What a curious creature you are.”_

“Was that Lucifer?”

Gabriel’s voice was low and so sudden that it almost made Castiel jump. He inhaled sharply and let it out again, looking away with an almost-shake of his head. So Gabriel could still read strong memories from his Grace after all, if he was close enough—if looking in his eyes. And that memory had been strong, Castiel couldn’t deny.

“Why were you discussing _cars_ with Luci, Castiel?”

Gabriel’s light tone belied the edge of command in it, but Castiel didn’t answer for a moment. When he did, it wasn’t because of the order. “He had me trapped in a circle of holy oil. He was … curious. He’d seen me arrive in town in an automobile.”

“Oh, okay. Why the _Hell_ were you driving into any town Lucifer was living in? What, you couldn’t read the omens?”

Gabriel’s tone was strange, Castiel thought. A mix of anger and fear. Without meaning to the younger angel chuckled, just once—more a huff than anything else. “There’s no point in getting worried, Gabriel. That future is no longer going to happen.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Gabriel almost sounded petulant.

After a pause Castiel sighed through his nose. “We were planning to kill him with Samuel Colt’s gun. The one that can kill … nearly … anything in creation.”

He felt more than saw Gabriel stiffen beside him. The Archangel’s response was oddly delayed, tense and controlled despite the would-be ferocity of his words. “Yeah, and that word ‘nearly’ is an important one for a reason, Castiel.”

“We didn’t know at the time that Lucifer was immune,” Castiel snapped back, and then turned to level a glare at Gabriel. “Perhaps if _someone_ had joined the fight earlier we would have known, and Dean and Sam wouldn’t have lost two of their closest friends on that suicide mission.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened but he looked to the road, refusing to respond to the clear accusation. Maybe because he didn’t feel like he could muster a defense. Maybe because he didn’t feel like he should have had to. With a sighed Castiel glanced away again, all his momentary anger draining away.

“Their names were Ellen and Jo Harvelle,” he said, though quite why he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if he needed to fill the silence in the car, with Gabriel’s radio on; yet even then, like the hospital, it would have seemed as though they were shrouded in silence despite it. “They were mother and daughter. Ellen didn’t want Jo to begin hunting, but as she couldn’t stop her, she insisted they hunt together instead.”

He fell silent for a moment, looking through the windshield and into the past, memories dancing before his eyes. “The night before we left to kill Satan, we celebrated,” he continued, and his voice was distant. He knew, peripherally, that Gabriel was watching his Grace, but without looking into his eyes all the Archangel would see were impressions. “It was our last night on Earth. We had found and retrieved the Colt. We felt sure it would work against Lucifer. And we knew where he was going to be the next day. Ellen and I competed against one another in a drinking contest. She can hold her liquor very well, for a human.”

It was the first time he’d actively imbibed alcohol with the intent of getting drunk. That first time, at the brothel, he had drunk because he needed something to do, anything to distract him from the awkwardness and the iniquity Dean had been encouraging him to indulge in. But that night at Bobby’s there had been … something else. Enjoyment. Camaraderie.

He had indulged because he was with others, because they shared something. And he had missed his brothers with such sharpness that he had wanted to numb the pain.

To think he had, at the time, felt as though nothing could possibly hurt more.

“There were reapers there,” he said, “awaiting Death’s release. Dozens of them, all watching. I went to seek out why and walked straight into Lucifer’s arms. I only heard later that Jo had been mauled by hellhounds. She would not have survived regardless. To give Dean and Sam the chance to escape the hounds, they built a bomb in the shop in which they had taken cover, and Ellen remained behind to let the hellhounds inside and detonate the weapon.”

He’d only been given the barest of bare details in words. What Dean hadn’t realized was that he’d seen every moment, every grief-stricken word and all of Jo’s broken courage in his eyes and soul.

“You liked them,” Gabriel observed quietly, and Castiel answered without thinking.

“Yes. They were warriors. They were courageous. They had more honor, more graciousness, in their short lifetimes than—” He cut himself off and fell silent, but then wondered why. Why should he pretend his judgment hadn’t passed? Why should he pretend that his brothers were somehow above those two brave, dedicated women? “Than Michael or Lucifer have had in the entirety of their existences.”

“Bit of a harsh assessment, don’t you think, bro?” Gabriel asked, curiosity and censure warring in his voice. “After all, Mikey and Luci have been around for a long, _long_ time.”

“No,” Castiel said flatly. “From the moment of our creation, we knew our Father’s love. We knew power. But humanity …” His lips curled a bit with a bitter, wondering, awed smile. “These people know they will die, but they don’t know when or how or what will happen afterward. They are like fireflies—fleeting. There are so many of them, and they are so helpless, their lives so meaningless. And yet still there are so many among them who will stand up to fight, with honor and courage, although they don’t even know if there will be a reward.”

His words made his chest clench and stomach balloon in equal turns—first with guilt and the second with … with he wasn’t sure. He was hesitant to call it love. He wasn’t sure an angel could feel that kind of emotion the way humanity could—not unless they were fallen in a way he wasn’t yet.

But respect, certainly. And awe, yes.

“I loved humanity because it was our Father’s order, Gabriel,” he said softly. “Because sometimes I could see beauty in their innocence, in their creations. But I never realized why they were so _worthy_ of love until I saw what they could do when all of that was stripped away—until they were nothing more than bare and broken soulswho struggled on not because they were ordered or because they would receive a payment, but simply because they believed it was the right thing to do.”

There was silence in the car, a heavy silence even though the radio still played. Then finally Gabriel broke it by laughing. The sound was strangely brittle and though there was a faint edge of incredulity, it wasn’t at all mocking.

“ _Dad_ , Cas, no wonder you Fell. The Winchesters did that to you?”

Castiel frowned. “You make it sound as though they did me a disservice.”

“Maybe they did, Castiel.”

Gabriel’s voice was so tired that Castiel glanced over, but the Archangel was staring at the road through the windshield. For a moment his expression was unguarded, his lips slightly twisted; Castiel read fear and denial and some measure of resignation in his Grace, and something in him leapt.

It was only a moment; the next, the Archangel had closed over, and the smile he threw to his brother was so convincing that if Castiel hadn’t seen Gabriel unguarded he might have believed it. “So, what I got out of that is that I have to challenge you to a drinking game sometime very soon.” Realization flashed over his face, and his expression turned wicked. “We could hustle the pants off someone, I’ll bet.”

“What would be the point?” Castiel asked with a frown. “We have no need of the money.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes and waved a hand. “It’s not the _needing_ , it’s the _doing_. Come on, Castiel; don’t tell me you spent _all_ your future-time on Earth just dealing with the apocalypse?”

It should have been a rhetorical question, Castiel decided later. Gabriel’s disbelief and the smack he delivered to the back of Castiel’s head really weren’t necessary.

 

When they finally pulled into the carpark of a roadhouse, Castiel was beyond glad. After their unexpected heart-to-heart Gabriel had decided that the proper response was to turn the music up ear-splittingly loud. As soon as they pulled up Castiel was out of the car like a shot, not even bothering with the door despite the fact there were numerous cars in the lot. It was a popular roadhouse, apparently.

Gabriel snickered as he exited the car and stretched, but Castiel ignored him. Instead the younger angel took deep breaths and looked up at the late-afternoon sky, the horizon just beginning to show signs of orange from the sun. The longer he had to endure the car, the less it seemed he was able to. Gabriel really wasn’t helping with that. It was odd that he should find it so difficult, given how physically small a human vessel was in comparison, but that was different too. It wasn’t the body that mattered as much so the soul that it had housed.

It was with reluctance that the younger angel turned toward the roadhouse’s doorway, through which Gabriel was already strolling. It was the sort of place—out in the middle of nowhere—which had people looking around to see who was entering and where strangers were uncommon if only because no one stopped there.

“Why are we here?” he asked Gabriel with a crinkle in his brow, looking around and meeting some of the patrons’ eyes. There were a number of them—truckers, farmers, all locals.

“Because I happen to know that this place is one of the best-kept secrets in the state,” Gabriel told him without missing a beat or even looking around. Rather, he half-sprawled on the counter, giving the lady behind it a winsome smile. “You’d almost think the food here was sent from Heaven.”

The woman laughed. “Well, you got me, sugar. What’ll you be having?”

“Two of your porterhouses with the lot,” Gabriel said promptly. “Medium-rare.”

Castiel felt a chill. Red meat. Ever since Famine, he hadn’t eaten red meat, no matter how much Jimmy like it. _Especially_ because Jimmy liked it. “I’m not hungry, Gabriel.”

“You’ll be hungry for this food, Cassy, trust me,” was Gabriel’s only response as he watched the woman write down their order and head for the kitchen. Castiel supposed he should have been grateful the Archangel didn’t look around; he would certainly have read something in Castiel’s Grace otherwise. “I only come here once a year or so. You’re lucky; you made me move it up on my schedule.”

This assertion apparently helped the men around them to relax some, because while they weren’t locals Gabriel was still, apparently, one of them. It wasn’t an obvious thing—not something someone who wasn’t observant would notice—but it was something in the atmosphere. Castiel glanced around uncomfortably. No one was looking anymore, but he didn’t want to be here. Yet he had no choice except to slide onto a stool beside his brother, who dedicated himself to chatting up the bartender as soon as she’d returned.

Castiel chose to observe the other patrons. He’d never been to the Harvelle Roadhouse, but part of him wondered if this was what it was like; a bit dim, with torn upholstery, stained tables and beams that indicated the building had been around forever and would likely stand for a good few centuries or so yet. The patrons were all men of the field, whether farm-fields or otherwise—from some of the souls, he could tell that a few had seen war.

He was so busy watching them that he almost missed the conversation occurring four seats down and around the corner.

“—wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own damned eyes,” a man was saying in undertone to his companion, his eyes flickering around the roadhouse as if to make sure no one else was listening. Castiel let his eyes travel past them as if he’d just been scanning the room, his curiosity suddenly piqued and not wanting to give the man cause to stop talking.

His companion snorted. “Most people aren’t believing it even then. Take a look around, man; they’d all rather pretend it’s not happening at all, even the ones who saw it.”

“I can’t blame them,” muttered the first man, lifting his glass of beer. “I’d like to pretend it’s not happening either. But, Jesus, how long can it go on before something changes?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel read their souls. The first thing that struck him was the fear, the consternation, the burgeoning knowledge that not all in the world was as it seemed. It made his Grace tingle; something supernatural was happening nearby, though he couldn’t tell what it was without a clearer line of sight on the men’s souls.

“Hellooooo, Castiel?” Gabriel waved his hand in front of his face, and Castiel blinked and glanced toward his brother with vague surprise to find that their food had arrived. Gabriel was looking at him with a mixture of amusement, exasperation and curiosity, his utensils already in his hands; but apparently he decided he really didn’t want to know, because he shoved a forkful of meat into his mouth and then indicated Castiel’s plate. “Dib im!”

Castiel gave him an unreadable look, then turned, rose and made for the pair sitting around the corner. The action seemed to make their little corner of the roadhouse stop. “I overheard you talking,” he said to the men. “What’s happened?”

They exchanged uncertain glances, eyeing him and pulling back, closing ranks against the stranger. In the distance Castiel heard Gabriel groan, probably because he’d looked at the men and seen what Castiel had. The younger angel ignored him. He could see into their eyes, now. He could see the memory that was plaguing them.

“Thank you,” he said to them calmly, then turned and headed back to his seat. Gabriel was cradling his head in one hand, and he jabbed his fork emphatically at his brother as Castiel sat down.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Townsfolk are disappearing, Gabriel,” Castiel said in a low voice, leaning toward him and speaking, as Gabriel had, in Italian. “Under extremely suspicious circumstances.” Gabriel rolled his eyes and pushed him back upright.

“So have them call the local cops and take care of it.”

“Not those kinds of circumstances,” Castiel insisted. Gabriel sighed and put a knife and fork in his hand, pointing at the plate of steak.

“Eat.”

“Gabriel—”

“Castiel.” The Archangel met his eyes squarely, not a sign of humor in him as he leaned forward. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I don’t believe it is possession,” Castiel assured him. “Perhaps a witch or a poltergeist, or some sort of man-eater.”

“I don’t care,” Gabriel said flatly, stabbing the air with his fork. “We’re not getting involved in this, bro. This is the kind of thing your orphan Annies get into. Them and all the mooks who think they know anything about _anything_. So just forget about it, am I clear?”

There was something strange about that assertion. It wasn’t as if Gabriel had never interfered in human lives before—he did it frequently, in fact. But Castiel put the musing out of his mind and plowed on.

“We are here, right now,” Castiel told him, his gravelly voice controlled and blue eyes intense on his brother’s face. “If _we_ do not do something, more people will die before another hunter arrives.”

“They all die sooner or later, Castiel,” Gabriel hissed. “So let them.” Castiel reared back, startled and disappointed in equal amounts. He studied the Archangel as Gabriel went back to attacking his meal, pulling a cheery smile onto his face when the bartender came by to ask them if they wanted drinks. Quietly Castiel attended his own food, eating around the steak and wondering at Gabriel’s sudden ferocity. Castiel hadn’t thought Gabriel held such contempt for hunters.

Maybe it wasn’t them. Maybe it was just their job. Yet even then, a hunter’s identity and his work were so bound together that it was impossible to separate the two. Gabriel should have shown signs of such disdain before now. So why hadn’t he?

Except … perhaps he had, with some of the things he’d said, some of his tone when he spoke about hunters in the past, things Castiel had dismissed. With the fact he’d wanted to leave the Winchesters as quickly as possible. And there was something in the words just now, something in the way Gabriel had said that they all died, that made Castiel wonder.

The younger angel said nothing else, but he watched Gabriel out of the corner of his eye all through the meal and then after, Gabriel choosing blithely not to linger as if they had somewhere to be. The younger angel dared not to say anything while Gabriel chattered and played the music loud, trying to cover for whatever tension had been there.

Late that night, when they reached a motel and Gabriel vanished to ‘go find one of his appointments’, Castiel went back to the stamp-sized town of which the roadhouse had been part.


	9. I still was a mad man

The roadhouse was dark by the time Castiel got there, though it was only an hour until dawn. Gabriel had tried to put a great deal of distance between them and the town. It was a strangely human urge, even though the distance wouldn’t have stopped Castiel in the slightest. Gabriel should have known that, but he still tried.

Part of Castiel wondered if this wasn’t some kind of test. Another part of him wondered if Gabriel truly had been on Earth just that long, that he’d forgotten his siblings could do nearly everything he could. The rest of him didn’t particularly care. There was something happening in this town, something supernatural, and Castiel had been present early enough to intercept it. He couldn’t let it go without doing something. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was duty. He couldn’t tell; they had become so mingled nowadays that it was impossible for him to separate them.

Mingled, but irresistible. And so he hadn’t resisted.

The area around the town was covered with sparse wood—too sparse to be properly called a forest, but too much so to be simply called scrub, and more than enough to provide cover for some being or another. The roadhouse itself was on the edge of town, so Castiel walked towards the urban areas, watchful and cautious.

He had to admit, though, that he wasn’t likely to see anything. From what he’d read in the men’s souls, things happened earlier in the evening, when he and Gabriel had been travelling uselessly across the state. Probably that was what Gabriel had intended; his presence had effectively kept Castiel from leaving to do anything about it.

And if Castiel went back the Archangel would only do it again. Castiel’s best chance of putting a stop to this was to find a suitable hiding place and stay there until the next night, hoping that it would be enough to evade his brother.

The angel had just returned to the roadhouse to find a hiding-place nearby, reasoning that the most likely area to see anything helpful would be here, when there was a rush of wingbeats behind him. Castiel stiffened and whirled, already reaching for his blade, but Gabriel seized his arm and yanked him close. His face was tight, Castiel saw with a resigned sort of fascination, and his amber eyes were snapping anger. Behind that earthly façade the Archangel’s Grace was tight and sharp like a spear-point, quivering with controlled tension.

“We’re _leaving_ , little brother,” Gabriel growled, and with a sweep of his many wings yanked his erstwhile sibling back to the motel where they’d settled. Castiel staggered when they landed, his clothes and hair ruffled by the ungentle flight, and Gabriel released him. The Archangel turned away, his back stiff with frustration, and the lights hummed.

“I needed to do something, Gabriel,” Castiel said almost at once despite the faint display of Grace. Gabriel looked over his shoulder; his expression almost made the younger angel wish he’d kept his mouth shut.

“You were going to blow our cover,” Gabriel snapped. “I didn’t spend a millennia building it up so _you_ —” the word was punctuated with a finger-stab “—could assuage whatever the Hell is on your conscience.”

“People are important, Gabriel,” Castiel insisted with an almost reckless candor—for him. “Why do you object to helping them?”

At that Gabriel whirled and raised his hands sharply in a motion that could have been the beginnings of a smiting or a longsuffering ‘God help me’. Possibly it was both. “I’m not going to be conned into being a hunter! Soon enough it’s all ‘do this’, ‘do that’, expectation all the time, and you know what they show for it? _Nothing_.”

The way he spoke was almost as if he knew from experience. Something turned in Castiel’s gut and his eyes widened. “You already tried it.”

Gabriel released a long, slow exhale through his nose, letting his hands drop. His lip rose a little in a sneer. “What, you think I just came down to Earth and knew exactly what I was doing? I left Heaven without travel plans, Castiel. It took me a few decades to figure out how I was going to keep myself safe. At least hunting was something to do in the meantime, up until people started to cotton on.”

It was the ‘up until’ that alerted the younger angel. That ‘up until’ meant a lot, even if Castiel couldn’t tell details.

“That was a long time ago, Gabriel,” Castiel said, stepping closer. “Whatever happened then—”

Gabriel scoffed and turned away with a flap of his hand. “Please, don’t give me that ‘times change’ spiel. Nothing really changes. Not even humanity. They still make the same stupid mistakes, generation after generation—they just make them bigger.”

There was such disgust and bitterness in his tone that Castiel wondered if he was talking about their family as much as about humanity, but that was superseded but the implication in the words. “You tried _recently_?”

He sounded shocked. He couldn’t help it; all he knew of the Gabriel from his own time was that the Archangel had set himself up as a pagan god and spent the years in debauchery and irreverence. It had never once occurred to Castiel that Gabriel might have tried to _help_ anyone. The thought at once humbled him and left a pang of fear in his gut.

This Gabriel was the same as his—just a couple of decades younger. What else had he missed? “What happened, Gabriel?”

For a moment the Archangel was silent, his shoulders drawn but his hands loose at his sides. Castiel had just sighed and sat down, sure Gabriel wasn’t going to answer, when his brother spoke. “Occasionally I got attached, okay? It was hard not to. Sometimes humans—they just have what it takes.”

He shrugged casually, as if such humans were one in a billion and couldn’t be expected to crop up every day, as if it wasn’t his fault he could be subject to the sheer fluke of meeting a human that could worm their way into an angel’s heart.

But Castiel saw it. He heard what Gabriel wasn’t saying. He knew it, because he had had it happen to him. It made his back prickle, because humans only lived to be about a hundred if they were _lucky_ and Gabriel …

Gabriel had been on Earth for a very long time. More than long enough to get attached on multiple occasions, by the sound of it. Castiel wondered how many humans the Archangel had loved and then had to see die, whether he had revived any of them, how long it had taken before he’d given up on it entirely—and the younger angel found he didn’t want to know.

“What happened, Gabriel?” he repeated.

Gabriel voice came after a long time, as if from a great distance. “… I gave him something. Something no human should have.” He huffed. “Knowledge, you know. Humans can do fantastic things with knowledge. _Amazing_ things.”

Of course. Gabriel was the Messenger; his greatest skill was in passing on information, in all its forms. It was Gabriel who had taught Castiel how to write devil’s traps, how to weave together the warding sigils he’d laid on Dean and Sam’s ribs, just as the Archangel had taught so many others. Most of their siblings, in fact. Enochian—that was Gabriel’s greatest gift. The ability to communicate, through song and through word.

And he was right. Humanity could do so much with knowledge, both wondrous and terrible.

“You’ve heard of Samuel Colt.”

The words were a statement, not a question, but they seemed to be such a non sequitur that Castiel blinked. “Of course. As I told you before, we tried to use his gun to kill Lucifer, but there’s—”

He went cold and the words dried up in his mouth.

“There’s five beings in all of creation it can’t kill,” Gabriel finished, half-turning around with a twisted smile. “Be stupid to put myself on that list, wouldn’t it? My closest brothers? And of course Death. That would be just idiotic. Dad doesn’t need the protection.”

“You told him how to build the Colt.” Castiel heard his voice but couldn’t believe the words were his; his voice was rough, even for him, that he felt every syllable as if it was sandpaper on his throat. He should have wondered earlier. That kind of weapon—it was magnificent, a work of art. Only with the help of something inhuman could Colt have possibly built it.

“Don’t you dare judge me, Castiel,” Gabriel said in a deadly quiet tone, and the lights flickered. “Not after whatever the Hell you did that got you brought back here and put that tenor in your Grace.”

But something was dawning in Castiel, something that felt like blinding illumination and made the twist in his stomach at once lighter and harsher. “He realized you weren’t human. He tried to kill you with it.”

“His family had been murdered,” Gabriel spat. “All I did was give him something he could use to even the playing field against Hell’s nasties. But then …” He laughed bitterly, his hands gesturing mockingly in the air. “But then he heard I was a pagan god and decided I’d been playing around all along, that he’d better off _me_.”

“And it didn’t work.”

Retired. Castiel remembered Sam talking about Colt when they went to get the phoenix ashes, how he’d spoken of the man in a mixed tone of awe and disappointment—how Colt had tried to claim he’d retired. How he was a sad, lonely man living in the middle of nowhere, a target because of his greatest invention.

“What did you _do_ to him, Gabriel?”

Gabriel shrugged. His wings were too tightly held against him for Castiel to have any chance of reading his Grace, but the way the Archangel looked away, the tic in his jaw, betrayed the emotion he was feeling. “I just made sure he never forgot what kind of price the misuse of knowledge had.”

“It was you who made sure everyone knew about the Colt,” Castiel translated. His chest felt tight; his stomach was churning. “He was hunted for the rest of his life. The children of the man he _gave_ it to were hunted!”

“Then he should’ve destroyed the damned thing, shouldn’t he?” Gabriel said in such a cold voice that it was a wonder there wasn’t frost on the walls. He strolled closer, tension in every muscle under a veneer of casualness. “So y’see, little brother, it doesn’t matter when or who or what. Hunters kill supernatural beasties of all kinds. Sure, you can try and help them, but the very _instant_ —” his finger rose in emphasis “—they find out you’re not actually one of them? It’s goodbye buddy and hello blacklist.”

“Dean and Sam aren’t like that,” Castiel blurted out. Gabriel’s eyes flashed and the lights flickered, but he only scoffed and turned away.

“Give them a few years, Castiel. Their dad will have them trained good and _proper_ all right.”

“Then why did you bother with the Christmas gifts?” Castiel asked. Gabriel shrugged and tilted his head in a way that said he was rolling his eyes.

“Please. If I’d smote their bastard of a father all I’d have heard from you was whine, whine, whine. That was the best I could do.”

There was something there, Castiel felt sure. Something Gabriel wasn’t admitting. Perhaps it was as simple as liking humanity more than he acknowledged even to himself—something he hadn’t acknowledged until that moment not long before he was murdered by his own brother. Perhaps Gabriel was simply using his experience with Colt to justify _everything_ about the apocalypse and angels knowing better. Perhaps giving Sam and Dean stuffed toys really was as simple as Gabriel needing to find some way, however small, to assuage his sense of justice.

And yet.

“I _have_ to help them, Gabriel,” Castiel said, his every word weighted with determination and tension and, faintly, a plea. Gabriel half turned toward him, and in the lights on the cast of his face, Castiel thought for a moment he saw resignation.

Then: “Fine. Get lost. But don’t you dare come back, bro. You’re going out to risk _my_ cover all over again? Don’t expect help from me when they figure out you’re one of the things they’re hunting.”

The words were harsh and somehow unexpected, and they hit Castiel like blows. He flinched, covered it by looking down to take a breath, brace himself, push himself to his feet. “Very well. Goodbye, brother.” 

Before he could look to see Gabriel’s expression or think twice and second-guess himself, Castiel spread his wings and left the motel room.

 

For a while after that Castiel simply wandered. It was just on dawn when he arrived back by the roadhouse, out of sight so no one saw him, but he didn’t want to go in and wound up simply walking the area around the town, absently looking for clues.

In truth he was a bit in shock. He and Gabriel had been getting on well; there had been moments when Castiel had actually felt something very near to peace. And now, suddenly, Gabriel had decided to cling to his bitterness, had told him to leave, because Castiel wanted to help.

He wasn’t angry. He was surprised to realize that, but Castiel wasn’t angry. Gabriel had been on Earth for so long and in their previous timeline Castiel had never bothered to try and find out anything about the Archangel’s life there. He had simply made assumptions and judgments.

He had been so naïve, then, thinking he had the right to judge his brother.

Samuel Colt. Gabriel had known and cared for Samuel Colt, had helped him build his magnificent gun. And that hadn’t even been very long ago, either, as far as time went for angels. Maybe Gabriel had always been closer to making his choice than Castiel had thought.

Maybe he still felt too hurt to do much with it. Castiel didn’t know. Now he wouldn’t know. And it was the bitter betrayal in Gabriel’s last words that cut the most.

When twilight fell Castiel was waiting on the edge of a dirt road leading to the roadhouse from the town, less well-travelled than some others; it was only a pair of wheel-ruts. There were walking trails leading off it, into the woods—camping grounds and places for youths to explore. He could hear the distant sound of water. The area best matched the images he had seen in the men’s souls.

He remained still and alert, and birds called around him, leaves rustling with animals unconcerned with his presence. For a little while. Then the sounds deadened as if everything had stilled.  Castiel’s eyes narrowed and he opened his Grace.

It took a while before Castiel felt anything. He wasn’t reaching; many supernatural beings could sense it when someone was reaching for them. He simply had his Grace open, passive, waiting for something to brush it. The first contact was so light and fluttering that Castiel blinked with surprise and without recognition, but the second was firmer—a human soul. When he scanned the trees, he eventually saw a flicker of movement some rows back, deeper into the woods.

The angel followed it, his eyes on the movement. It was yellow, he saw as he got closer—clothes. And the person wasn’t tall. Not an adult. It wasn’t yet late enough to wonder what a child might be doing out in the woods, but it was the brief touch on his Grace that made the angel follow.

Something buzzed near him, in his ears and in his Grace. Without thinking he glanced away from the figure and saw blue light shining through the trees, moving and flickering like a flashlight. The angel paused by a tree to watch it, his brow furrowed. Someone else in the woods?

When he looked back to where the figure had been it was gone, and the angel went cold. He took a few steps along the trail he’d been following, head moving this way and that, trying to find the flash of bright yellow which shouldn’t have been difficult to see at all.

A moment later he saw it and relaxed somewhat, moving through the trees toward it at a quick, tireless pace. To his surprise the child managed to keep ahead of him, enough that he never quite managed to glimpse even the brief details he had before. He knew he was going in the right direction because of the thrum against his Grace. 

At least, that’s what he thought up until he stepped between some trees and the ground gave way beneath him with the long sucking _schlooooooook_ of swampy ground.

__

“I swear it wasn’t me,” the woman gibbered as security handcuffed her and shoved her down on the seat by the club. “It wasn’t me! I couldn’t have done it, I was over there!”

Gabriel watched from across the road, nondescript in a crowd of late-night revelers, his hands in his pockets and face shadowed because he was standing out of the streetlights. He could see in her soul that it was true—she hadn’t done anything. That was because _he_ had, and left it to her to pick up the pieces. Just desserts for when she’d consciously let someone else take the fall for a hit and run last year.

Somehow the justice wasn’t helping deaden the twist of simmering anger and betrayal. And only part of that anger was for Castiel.

He should’ve known better. He’d gotten too eager, had been too relieved at the thought of not being alone again—of having a brother nearby who understood, who wanted to stay out of the fight, who didn’t want to hurt his family. Oh, there were some in Heaven who had tried to remain neutral, but in the end they still remained in Heaven’s service, still remained ignorant of so many nuances passing between the Archangels.

Castiel hadn’t. For the first time in two millennia, Gabriel hadn’t felt alone among his siblings. For Dad’s sake, he had _sung_. For two thousand years, not a note, and then the very instant it seemed like he’d have some company he’d broken his own damned vow.

He’d completely overlooked the warning signs. He should’ve listened to his gut when Castiel wanted to stay with the Winchesters. Shouldn’t have encouraged his brother. Shouldn’t have pretended it was okay to hang around with hunters, with the sorts of people their family would be _watching_ , with those who would get in the way and do their best to kill them or break their hearts.

Shouldn’t have sent Castiel away. They hadn’t even made it to the New Year.

_Well, what are you going to do about it now, then?_ Gabriel asked himself sardonically, watching without seeing as a police car rolled up to the curb and the woman was pressed, firmly, into the backseat. It wasn’t like he didn’t know where Castiel was right this very minute. He could go find him, tell him to come back …

And then what? They’ll keep arguing over the hunters. Whatever measure of understanding and harmony they’d found would be gone. Castiel wouldn’t let the issue go, and Gabriel couldn’t accept the risk the hunters brought.

_And just which risk is it that scares you more, the one where you might get caught or the one where you might start caring too much again?_ wondered an inner voice he thought he had managed to silence a long time ago. Gabriel’s eyelid flickered. Dad damn it. 

A moment later the shadows behind the streetlight were empty.

__

The mud was thick and heavy, suffocating as it got into his nose and his mouth. Castiel wouldn’t have panicked, except that he thought of—

_drowning in souls and water and can’t see can’t feel his own Grace his light being smothered_

—being the Leviathans’ vessel.

Castiel thrashed, Jimmy’s— _his_ —body’s instincts overcoming his sense. The soggy earth shifted around him, squelching and clinging. He clawed at it, extending his Grace and yelping at the sudden harsh buzz against it. It wasn’t painful, not exactly, but it was loud and invasive and made his skin crawl.

It felt like one of the souls of Purgatory, but not. Like the ghost of one.

_Will o’ the wisp_ , he thought with a flash of insight, remembering the lights and the child that had been following them before they had drawn his own attention.

He stopped struggling and forced himself to calm, to ignore the pounding of his human heart and the insistence that it needed to breathe. When he extended his Grace again the buzz was still there, but nothing stopped him from reaching outside his vessel. He spread his wings and flew the short distance out of the ground and back to where the ground had been firmer.

Abruptly there was solid earth under his feet, twisted with roots and strewn with mulch. When he blinked mud slid down his eyelids; he lifted a hand to wipe it away. He was soaked, covered in clinging soil. He glanced across the ground into which he’d fallen and saw lights dancing and flickering over it, yellow and blue and orange.

His back prickled and the angel froze, resisting the urge to draw his Grace back into himself. His gaze shifted from side to side, scanning the trees, trying to find what might be watching, but there was only the weighted silence of anticipation and danger around him.

Castiel exhaled, decided he couldn’t afford to worry, and stretched out his Grace to look for a soul. He found it a split-second later, about a hundred yards away and inside the ground—flickering and unstable. He was there almost instantly, using his Grace to harden the earth. The buzz of the wisps heightened, the lights cavorting around him with rage or anxiety. It was hard to tell; the emotions, such as they were, were so basic that the lines were blurred. They darted in, touching him, and he felt shocks against his Grace that would have sucked away parts of his soul if he’d been human.

He ignored them all and thrust his hand into the ground, pulling up the parts he’d hardened until he could drag the child out. The boy choked and coughed and gasped, and then cried out when the wisps darted in, attracted by the soul they were about to lose. Castiel beat his wings and a moment later they were on the track near the roadhouse, its lights visible through a layer of trees.

The boy shivered and his cheeks were flushed, but at least he was breathing. He was only half-conscious, though. Castiel hesitated for a moment and then lifted him up, moving toward the roadhouse; at least the child would be unlikely to remember anything.

When he came through the door everyone looked around, and this time, after a split-second of recognition, people reacted. The woman at the counter exclaimed; several of the men swore and moved toward them; even more of them rose, or half-rose, or watched anxiously.

“Josie Lawson,” the barmaid cried, hurrying up to them and wiping mud off the boy’s face.

“I found him in the woods,” Castiel told her. “Not far from here.”

Hurriedly the majority of the patrons turned away as if to pretend nothing was happening. Castiel frowned at them and the fear in their souls.

“I remember you,” said one of the ones who had come to help, who shucked off his jacket to wrap around Josie. “You came in with the guy with the smart mouth last night, asking around for news.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, letting the man—ex-Navy, the angel read—take the boy. “I specialize in … oddities.”

“Oddities!” The woman snorted, handing Castiel a wet rag and taking another to Josie’s face, throwing a scowl at the majority of the roadhouse patrons. “Craziness, more like. Someone going around, stealing our people, and no one’s doing jack. Even the cops vanish when they investigate.”

“Send him out, Brenna,” growled someone by the bar. “We don’t need any more trouble.” Castiel didn’t need to look to know that fear and helpless anger drove the words.

“I will leave now,” he said calmly, handing back the rag unused.

“Wait,” objected the ex-Navy man, “the police might want to speak to you.”

But Castiel was already heading for the door, mud dripping from his trenchcoat and determination in every step. There was more fear here than he’d thought. The wisps had to go. If he’d been human, it would have been difficult, but he wasn’t. He knew what they were; the remnants of supernatural beings’ souls. Ghosts whose bones had settled into the ground, whose spectral ooze turned it to swamp. Unlike a human, an angel would have no trouble salt-and-burning wet ground.

An hour later the roadhouse patrons and the cops who had been called heard the roar of fire and saw an eruption of flames from above the tree-line, burning hard and fast before abruptly flickering out. They shouted with alarm and surprise; one of the officers slid into the police cruiser to use the radio and then peeled away down the track, toward the location. Josie’s parents clutched him and stared, pale-faced, at the rising smoke. Brenna did the same from the porch, hands in her hair, mouth open.

From across the road, Gabriel watched, his expression impassive and light flickering in his amber eyes.


	10. I hear the voices when I'm dreaming

Castiel stood by the curbside and watched as the woman fussed over her child, making sure the little girl was properly buckled into her pram. The tiny redhead sat quietly, allowing the attention; when her father came out of the house a moment later the girl lifted her face and smiled at him. The man smiled back with the sort of faltering hope of someone offered something they still weren’t used to.

_“Aren’t you scared Father will be mad?”_

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment. It must have frightened the child Anna, having two fathers and remembering only that one, her real One, would be angry at her. No wonder her human father reacted so hesitantly.

When the angel opened his eyes he found Anna staring straight at him and started, glancing around. For a moment he was certain that he’d slid back into the human world and wondered how that could be. It took another look before he realized that she was gripping something around her neck—something which glowed faintly through her chubby fingers. This time when she saw him looking she brightened and lifted a hand over her head to wave enthusiastically. Her mother glanced over.

“Who are you waving at, sweetheart?” she asked, amused and puzzled at once. Castiel felt relieved; he hadn’t made a mistake. Anna had simply known he was there.

“My guardian angel,” Anna said earnestly. Her parents exchanged startled glances and then smiles.

“He must be overworked,” her father teased, reaching out to ruffle her hair and then stopping mid-motion. Anna leaned blissfully into his hand.

“Yep,” she agreed. “What’s ‘oberworked’?”

Castiel looked down and smiled, and left with the sound of happy laughter in his ears.

After cleansing the woods of the wisps he’d _needed_ to see someone he knew, someone he cared about. Family. He’d spent so long in war, and then fallen, that he’d forgotten what it had been like to have family nearby, not judging him. Gabriel had gone farther than most; he’d teased and it had been irritating, yes, but now Castiel found himself looking back on it with nostalgia. Dean and Sam had teased each other.

Gabriel had reminded him of everything he’d lost and he hadn’t even realized it until the Archangel had shoved him out. And Anna was the only family he had left who was safe for him to see.

It had helped. Castiel felt calmer now, more at ease. He remembered that Anna had a happy childhood. And she was right; she had a guardian angel. Castiel had arrived at the house late in the night and spent the time warding it as simply and discreetly as he could. He’d avoided Enochian—he couldn’t be obvious about it being an angel who had drawn the sigils—but it would be safe and he would be alerted if anything supernatural tried to enter the yard.

There hadn’t been any reason not to take the precaution, and every reason _to_ take it. And it had reminded Castiel that there was someone else to whom he owed a visit.

The angel arrived in Pontiac, Illinois just in time for lunch. He found the Novaks at a park, having a picnic just like a dozen other families. They sat on a blue checkered rug and had half-filled platters everywhere. It wasn’t just Jimmy and his parents; his uncles, aunts, cousins were there too.

Castiel sat on a seat nearby, glancing around, his hair ruffled by the wind. His gaze fell on a daughter-father pair flying a bright yellow kite. Yellow, not red, but it still made his chest twinge, and he looked away again a moment later.

The angel sat quietly, making sure to look around so as not to unduly alarm any of the families, but his attention always returned to the Novaks and Jimmy in particular. The boy was five, now, dark-haired and still a little chubby, with a serious face and bright blue eyes which danced with enthusiasm. When the time came for prayer he sat and listened intently, a marked difference to his cousins. Castiel’s chest clenched again.

He had chosen the man this boy would become. He’d had to; he’d needed a vessel. But then the man had chosen him in return, for the sake of his daughter. Castiel had never stopped to dwell on that sacrifice beyond the initial moments of shock and puzzlement, had never had time; but he had the time now, and every time he thought about it, it humbled him on levels he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced.

It was like Ellen and Jo, but not. They were brave women who had chosen the fight. Jimmy hadn’t; all he’d wanted was out, was to be with his family. He’d re-entered the fight to save his daughter. There was purity in that choice which made Castiel’s throat close in retrospect. He’d thought he had begun to understand so well, and he never had at all.

A football bounced along the grass and rolled to a stop under his seat. It was followed by the patter of bare feet on grass which halted a moment later.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a calm, very young voice, filled with respect. Castiel looked up from the ball to find he was being regarded by blue eyes. Jimmy stared at him for a few moments, long enough that it made Castiel’s heart leap, but then he smiled nervously and held out his hands. “May I please have our ball?”

Castiel stared blankly for a moment longer before realization jolting him into action. “Of course.” He reached between his feet to pick up the ball and hand it to Jimmy, summoning a faltering, rueful smile.

Jimmy started at him for a moment longer, a tiny crinkle in his brow as if he was trying to remember where he’d seen Castiel before, but then he smiled suddenly. “Thank you. God bless!”

Then he ran back off to his family, hugging the ball to his chest and leaving Castiel frozen on the seat. It wasn’t until the family was once again engrossed in their game that he felt the motivation to stir and rise, to move seats, and this time he made sure he couldn’t be seen.

He still watched, though. He felt he _had_ to watch, to witness Jimmy’s childhood and everything Castiel had taken from him. When the family finally returned home, he followed from overhead, and by morning their house was warded too.

There was no Castiel in this timeline to take Jimmy as his vessel, but there were others. The vessel bloodlines for footsoldiers could potentially contain more than one angel; Jimmy was still under threat, if one of Castiel’s other brothers should approach him. Nothing was going to touch this Jimmy, no matter what the angel had to do to prevent it.

Whatever else, watching both Jimmy and Anna had cemented his new desire. He would be a hunter, whether it risked his cover, whether the hunters themselves would turn on him. Anna and Jimmy and the millions of children like them who had never had to know for certain that the monsters under the bed were real deserved that protection. 

And there was only one person he knew who could prepare him well enough for that.

__

Christmas wasn’t long past. Bobby was still lingering over the whiskey Rufus had sent him, staring into the open drawer at his desk, when the knock on the door came. Joni’s bark came a split-second later. The sounds snapped the hunter out of his reverie with a jerk; he closed the drawer as he stood and grabbed his shotgun.

When he approached the door he heard Joni whining and whuffling like she was greeting an old friend. The silhouette in the doorway was turned toward hers, hand on her head but standing straight—acknowledging the dog, but apparently not a dog-lover. When Bobby levered the door open he wasn’t sure who he was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t the strange hunter who’d appeared on his doorstep over a month ago.

“Hello, Bobby,” Castiel said gravely, Joni leaning blissfully against his side. He looked a bit befuddled, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with the dog and was humoring her for the lack of anything else. Bobby huffed a short laugh and pointed the shotgun away, but didn’t lower it, as he pushed the screen door open with his foot. A quick glance around at the yard told him there were no strange cars in view.

“Where’s your brother?” he asked, indicating the driveway with his chin.

Something flickered in Castiel’s eyes. “We … parted ways.”

“Uh huh.” There was something in the man’s even tone which told Bobby it hadn’t been as easy as all that. He regarded the other hunter for a moment, long enough for Castiel to grow uncomfortable and look away. “So apparently we know each other.”

“I’ve—heard of you from others,” was Castiel’s reply, somehow equally pained as his last words. Too much so to be a lie, even if it wasn’t the whole truth.

“Gonna have to do better than that,” Bobby told him, eyeing the man suspiciously. Neither of his hands were in his pockets; the one not petting Joni was hanging loose by his side. He wasn’t prepared for an attack, that was for sure.

“It’s complicated,” Castiel admitted, looking back at him again. “I’m sorry. I need a favor.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Though Bobby played it cool, half leaning against the door to keep it open, shotgun ready in his hands, he had to admit he was intrigued. He’d never actually _forgotten_ the pair of hunters who’d come through town, but most of the past month he’d never had time to actively _dwell_ on them. It wasn’t that he’d never had brief acquaintances with other hunters before; it was just that his acquaintance with them had been even more mysterious than any other, and _that_ was saying something. Castiel had showed up soaking wet on his doorstep half-dead from blood-loss but without an injury on him, for God’s sake. And his psychic brother? Sure, no mystery there.

So Castiel’s request came as something more of a surprise than even Bobby was expecting.

“I need you to teach me how to hunt.”

Bobby shook his head incredulously. “What the hell, man? Thought your brother said you were already hunters?”

Castiel’s eyes flickered in a manner that said he was resisting glancing away again. “He did. I know. We are—of a sort. But my family’s usual methods are …” He hesitated. “Conspicuous. I need to know how average hunters hunt. To avoid drawing attention.”

“Your _family_?” Bobby repeated, half in disbelief and half in pursuit of the puzzle pieces he thought he could see starting to form.

“It’s something of a family business,” Castiel admitted. “Very … traditional. If I use their usual methods, they might notice me.”

“And that would be a bad thing?”

“Very.” For the first time Castiel’s eyes met Bobby’s properly, without any of the hesitance or uncertainty the man had displayed until then. They were calm but grave, and lent such weight to the single word that Bobby felt shivers run down his spine. All of a sudden all he could remember was Gabriel’s words, his use of ‘brother’ in the plural, his asking the comatose Castiel what he’d done to get like that—saying in such a dark voice that he already knew what had beaten Castiel to a pulp.

“Okay,” Bobby managed to say, nodding just slightly.

Immediately something in Castiel relaxed, mostly around the eyes. There was such relief and gratitude in those eyes that Bobby almost missed the guilt and shame lurking in the background. Well, Bobby wouldn’t ask. He saw the same things in his own eyes in the mirror every damned day. “Thank you, Bobby Singer.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Bobby muttered, a little embarrassed by the depths of the appreciation. He moved back out of the doorway so Castiel could step in; the other hunter did so, walking over the devil’s trap without hesitation.

“Drink?” Bobby asked, moving toward the kitchen, still with his shotgun in hand. “Still got some of that whiskey you sent me left.”

“That will be fine,” Castiel agreed, moving deeper into the house. Bobby found that he couldn’t hear the man, even straining his ears; he walked so quietly. It gave the hunter chills and made him hurry along, and a moment later he came back out with his gun in one hand and two glasses in the other. Castiel had already made his way into the office and was standing by the desk, looking down at the book Bobby had on it with an expression of pleased recognition.

The hunter felt a stab of suspicion. That was the book he’d been anonymously given for Christmas. He’d spent a week testing it for spells before finally admitting that it was a damned useful book so he may as well _use_ it. Castiel looked up and met his gaze as Bobby let the glasses thunk to the desk, reaching for the bottle of whiskey on the shelf behind it.

“It’s a good book,” said his guest, tentative like a son trying to figure out if his father was onto him. It was a strangely vulnerable tone.

“Sure is,” Bobby agreed mildly, meeting the other hunter’s gaze and managing a faint smile. “Been looking for it for a while.”

Castiel relaxed a bit more, and though he didn’t smile, there was warmth in his eyes as he took the half-full glass Bobby offered him. “I imagine you’ll find it worth having.”

Either he didn’t notice or didn’t care that the whiskey had been watered down. Either way, he didn’t react to the holy water. Sure, he hadn’t reacted _before_ , at the hospital, but that had been over a month ago. Who knew what might have happened since then?

Still, it let Bobby relax just a little bit more, and he put his gun aside to take a seat behind the desk. “So. Hunting the modern way, huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, his gaze roaming over the walls of the office. Sometimes Bobby thought he saw recognition or disappointment in his eyes, as if there were things he knew or others he expected to be there and weren’t. ‘Complicated’, he’d said. Well, Bobby was sure as hell curious now.

“Is it contacts you’ll be needing or the one-oh-one on supernatural beings?” Bobby asked.

“Contacts,” Castiel said, dragging his attention away from his perusal of the office. “And help with technology, the easiest way to get things done with regard to the law. My family is a bit behind in the times, but they tend to keep an eye on the official channels.”

Conservatives with power who used it, then. Probably resting on their laurels, judging by the way Castiel was dancing around the subject. Or worse.

Normally Bobby didn’t like giving new hunters the run-down. Sometimes he made exceptions, but not often.  Then again, Castiel wasn’t a new hunter; he was just adjusting from one method to another to keep himself hidden, whatever reasons he might have for _that_. Bobby couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to Gabriel. 

“Well,” he said finally, “guess we could do worse than to begin by running down my list of contacts.” He pulled another chair closer with the screech of wood on wood. “Get over here, and let’s get started.”

 

Castiel recognized shamefully few of the names Bobby gave him. He knew Rufus Turner. They had never actually met, but Castiel had seen him with Bobby, knew they were friends of a sort only hunters, twisted as they were, could be. He knew John Winchester. His jaw had tightened involuntarily at the name, and even though Bobby hadn’t asked, the man had been watching and Castiel knew he’d seen the recognition.

The angel had still taken John’s details.

He knew Ellen, but not Bill, and initially had only recognized the name ‘Harvelle’. Nonetheless he was relieved to have the Roadhouse’s address and knew he would visit, if only to see Ellen and Jo, and the man who had been a member of their family.

The rest were people Castiel didn’t know at all, except one: Daniel Elkins. The descendant of the man who’d had the Colt after its creator had lost it.

Castiel had stared down at the name, his mouth drawn to a tight line, and hadn’t known exactly what it was he felt. It was too much a mix of things to tell, even more so than his blend of emotions in which shame had nonetheless risen to the top. He’d kept the name and number, but he had even less intention of ringing it than he had in contacting John Winchester.

The odd thing about having to learn the ins and outs of hunting life was that Castiel’s first introduction of such had been two decades into the future. There were no cell phones for widespread use in this decade, only phone booths—which meant that John Winchester’s only contact details were a couple of numbers belonging to others, including a Missouri Moseley and Pastor Jim, and numerous  PO Boxes.

On one hand, this wasn’t exactly a hindrance for Castiel, usually, because the people he needed to contact weren’t shielded from angels. On the other, it would be suspicious to suddenly appear out of nowhere without reason, which meant it wasn’t an option for as long as Castiel intended to remain ‘under the radar’. It also meant he himself would be difficult to contact.

“Most people use the Roadhouse as a point for passing messages,” Bobby had said gruffly. “Sometimes here, but I’ve got my own damned hunts to take care of.”

Castiel had, somehow, been surprised. “You don’t serve as the main point of contact for hunters?” he asked without thinking, and Bobby had stared at him.

“Didn’t you hear a word I just said, boy?” he’d demanded.

Obviously this was a point in time before Bobby had settled down, while he still went on lengthy hunts like everyone else of his kind. The thought was somehow unnerving; Singer Salvage had always been a steady place, somewhere that would always be there with Bobby in charge. But that was in the future; here, in the past, Bobby was an almost-nomad like the others.

Then there were the tests. Bobby had pretended they weren’t tests, that they were just everyday things a hunter needed to do—which they _were_ —except that Castiel knew Bobby had been watching him carefully for any slip-ups. It made the angel glad he’d been forced to use human weapons, way back when, because it meant he could make salt-bullets and load a shotgun as easily as any real hunter could.

In fact his real problem was the opposite, as it turned out.

“So you know how to salt’n burn,” Bobby said as they sat at his kitchen table, jamming rock-salt into shells. It had been quiet before then and the sound of Bobby’s voice was somehow startling, but it made Castiel look up. The human wasn’t looking up from his work himself, his tone carefully casual. “But that’s pretty damn basic. Most hunters specialize. I’d lay money on your specialization bein’ demons.”

_The book_ , Castiel realized. It was too specific a book for the ordinary hunter to know offhand. And Bobby _knew_ the book had been from Castiel; he just wasn’t mentioning it.

After a moment Castiel realized that it really didn’t matter that Bobby knew or not. “Yes,” he said instead, returning his attention to his work. “It’s a specialty for … all of my family, in fact.”

Bobby grunted. “Wouldn’t mind drawing me up a devil’s trap or two, then. I’ve got some that need renewing.”

“Of course,” Castiel agreed calmly, recognizing the prompt for what it was—another test. He knew perfectly well that half of the intent was to see that Castiel was actually a real hunter, but the angel could also see in Bobby’s soul that it was to ensure Castiel knew what he was doing, wouldn’t go into a situation and wind up falling flat on his face. He wasn’t sure even Bobby realized that was what he was doing, but it was.

“Well, get going, then,” Bobby said, jerking his head at the faded circle on the roof and in front of the door. “Paint’s in the garage.” Castiel finishing preparing his last shell and left, finding the paint easily and settling down to do one of the things he knew best.

He was just finishing off the second trap when he sensed Bobby’s presence behind him and registered the ripple of surprise and suspicion in the man’s soul. The angel straightened up sharply, instinctively glancing around and cocking his wrist in case he needed his sword, but when he laid eyes on Bobby the hunter was staring at the devil’s trap.

“What the hell is that?”

Automatically Castiel looked down, surveying the trap. It looked fine to him; he had drawn this one so many times there wasn’t any way he could mess it up any more. With a frown Bobby crouched and brushed his hand over the drying sigils, carefully so as not to smudge them. “I’ve never seen sigils like this before.”

Abruptly and with a sensation in his Grace like a douse of ice-water, Castiel realized his mistake. He had instinctively drawn an angelic devil’s trap—a simple one, to be sure, compared to the one in which Alistair had been contained, but an angelic one nevertheless. It was the house, Bobby’s house; he had always drawn angelic wards in Bobby’s house.

“It’s Enochian,” he said, because he didn’t have a lie ready and would have failed to deliver it anyway, even if he’d wanted to. Bobby’s head snapped up.

“The language of the angels?” the hunter asked, disbelief and suspicion warring in his tone.

“Yes,” Castiel admitted, fiddling briefly with the handle of the paint-brush before realizing he was doing so and halting the movement. He added, “It’s a trap that has been passed down in my family for a—a long time. In fact it was—” He stopped, looked away, and only finished because he’d promised himself, and Bobby, that he wouldn’t lie or hide the truth any more than he absolutely had to. “It was Gabriel who taught me how to draw it.”

The angel felt the weight of Bobby’s stare on him. The flickers in the man’s soul were maddening, quick and stormy, but came to no set conclusion except bafflement. At least, none that Castiel could see without looking into the hunter’s eyes, and that felt like an intrusion, so Castiel kept his gaze firmly away.

“I think it’s in the _Key of Solomon_ ,” he offered. It wasn’t, but Bobby didn’t have that book yet; it would suffice as a cover.

“Huh,” Bobby said after a moment. “Well, you’d better get it done. Ain’t no use to us if it’s still half-open.”

After that they hadn’t spoken on it again, but Bobby had had Castiel redraw some of the other warding sigils, watching him carefully, and the angel knew the hunter was still suspicious—but in a manner of intrigue more than hostility.

_Gonna have to do better than that, Cassy,_ said a mental voice which sounded remarkably like Gabriel, one that had the same cadence of abject bitterness as the real Archangel had shown just before Castiel left him.

_I don’t want to,_ was Castiel’s simple answer, even though it wasn’t really his brother he spoke to.

And so it went. For a while. He was at the Singer scrapyard for nearly two weeks, willingly accepting Bobby’s chores, before the hunter irritably told him to get the hell out and take care of a poltergeist in the next state.


	11. I can hear them say

“It’s the weirdest damn thing I ever saw, Rufus,” Bobby grumbled, staring down at Castiel’s devil’s trap with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Rufus was bent over the trap, hand smoothing along the painted sigils with a frown. “If it weren’t for the fact he did every damned thing I gave him perfectly, I’d think it was a fake trap.”

“Maybe it is, Bobby,” Rufus pointed out, rising and taking his glass off the top of the nearest bookshelf. “You said his brother had a warped sense of humor, and Enochian’s not anything more than chicken-scratch based off English some wannabe thought up.”

“No, that ain’t it,” Bobby said with a shake of his head. “Sure, his brother’s a dick, but when it came to Castiel he was legit. He wouldn’t put him in danger by giving him the wrong trap.”

Even if _something_ had happened to cause the two to have some kind of falling out recently. From the sounds of things, Gabriel had taught Castiel the trap a long time ago.

Bobby scowled at the trap as if all this was its fault and gulped down a mouthful of his drink. It wasn’t right. The things Castiel knew, or didn’t know (like how to drive a frikkin’ _car_ ), the contradictions and the way he seemed only half-familiar with things that ought to be second-nature, the things he refused to talk about. The only brother whose name Bobby knew was Gabriel’s. And the names themselves, in fact … Gabriel was the only one who’d given an alias. It had been Castiel who’d ruined that; in fact Castiel hadn’t even tried to give any other name at all. And then there was the running theme going there even with just the two of them; if Bobby didn’t know any better he’d almost wonder if—

Abruptly Rufus chuckled. “Hey, Bobby. Don’t tell me you’re starting to wonder if we’ve got real goddamned angels wandering the Earth.”

“Don’t be an idjit,” Bobby growled, even though that was _exactly_ what he’d been thinking and he knew Rufus knew it. The taller man threw back his head and laughed at the denial, and with a wordless grumble Bobby drank again, wondering why the hell he’d bothered asking Rufus to call in as soon as he got back from his last hunt. 

 

Rufus and Bobby had moved on to other matters, and into the kitchen, before anything weird happened again. In fact they almost missed that anything weird was happening at all, except that Rufus knocked over his glass and bent down to mop up the whiskey, cursing at the waste. The angle put him in the best position to see out the door into the hall and the next moment he’d bolted to his feet so suddenly that Bobby almost spilled his drink struggling to get to his own, responding instinctively only to his friend’s adrenaline.

Somehow he wasn’t surprised, when he followed Rufus out, to find Gabriel leaning against the wall and staring down at the devil’s trap, his face unreadable. He looked up as they entered, his lip curling in something that was a cross between a sneer and a smile of amusement.

“How the hell did you get in here?” demanded the dark-skinned hunter, leveling a gun at the intruder.

Gabriel’s eyebrows rose mockingly. “Uh, through the front door.” He added a moment later, as if in afterthought: “Duh.”

Bobby rolled his eyes and reached out to take Rufus’s arm, even though his own grip on his shotgun didn’t really loosen. At least it was pointed at the floor. “Your brother ain’t here.”

“Then where is he?” Gabriel asked in a faux-friendly manner which sent a shiver down Bobby’s spine.

Despite that, he scowled in his best roughneck manner and retorted: “I ain’t tellin’ you!”

Gabriel stared at him, a tiny smile on his lips which did not at all match the hard glint in his golden eyes, the casual tension in his frame. The man was shorter than both Bobby and Rufus, maybe not as wiry in frame as the latter but definitely not as thickset as the former. Both of them together should have had no trouble taking Gabriel down.

Yet in that moment Bobby was certain that Gabriel was the most dangerous person in the room. The shiver turned into a prickle and _now_ the hunter raised his shotgun, Rufus following suit a moment later. “Get the hell out of my head.”

“What makes you think I want to go anywhere _near_ your head?” Gabriel said with a snort, and the tension in the moment lessened somewhat, though not enough for Bobby to actually lower his gun.

“Maybe because I know where your damned brother is,” Bobby growled. Something flickered in Gabriel’s face, something like amusement or irony.

“Not yet,” he murmured as if to himself, and then abruptly pushed off the wall, straightening up. It was such a sudden movement that both hunters cocked their guns, but all Gabriel did was look at them and laugh. “Oh, don’t get your damned panties in such a knot. I’m headed out. Toodles!”

With a cheery wave he turned and left through the front door, which was indeed as unlocked as it shouldn’t have been. Even in the man’s absence, he seemed to have left a palpable aura, and it was only slowly that Bobby lowered his gun again, exhaling a little more shakily than he cared to admit.

“What in God’s name,” Rufus murmured. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Yeah?” Bobby answered, still staring at the door, his skin still crawling all over.

“You know he ain’t anything human, right?”

For a moment Bobby didn’t answer. He was having a bit of trouble making his fingers ungrip his shotgun. Then with a short breath he asked, “You had proper bullets in that gun, didn’t you? Not salt rounds?”

“Yeah. Silver. Like I said earlier, just came off hunting a wraith.”

Bobby’s gun was loaded with shotgun shells, not rock-salt rounds. They’d both cocked their guns, been ready to shoot, only a muscle-reflex away from firing. And Gabriel, psychic _whatever_ that he was, had to have known it, had _laughed in their faces_.

The hunter swallowed hard. “Yeah, Rufus. I know.”

“That means his brother probably ain’t human either.” 

The thoughts Bobby had been thinking were creeping back in, and the shivers weren’t leaving. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

 

The salt and burn was ridiculously easy, so much so that Castiel felt obliged to go elsewhere for a while because he would have been returning to Singer Salvage far too quickly for any human to have finished the hunt in time. It was only while passing a storefront that he realized he and Bobby had seen New Years’ pass by without comment, though after a moment’s thought the angel had to admit that this probably wasn’t exactly unusual.

It did mean, however, that Dean’s birthday was about two weeks away and Castiel hadn’t really considered what to give the boy. So the angel chose to meander through a few department stores, looking through the toy-section. None of the toys in there fit what he knew of Dean, because what he knew of Dean was a soldier; but that was why Castiel had chosen the toy-section specifically.

He didn’t want to give Dean tools or weapons or things that would help his hunting life. What he wanted was to give Dean something for his childhood.

Eventually he saw the baseball gloves and hesitated, recalling a memory he’d once seen in Dean’s soul, one of Bobby and Dean visiting a park just to throw a ball around.

Half an hour later he left the store, a plastic bag clutched in his hand. Waiting in line had given him some time to consider whether he could or should return to Bobby’s, given that the hunt should have taken the better part of a day just to get to. Castiel may as well continue on his own way, rather than rely on Bobby to tell him where to go.

That, and it was dangerous being in that house. Things were just the same enough that he kept catching himself this close to slipping up. When Castiel had admitted he knew very little about the paper side of things, Bobby had given him a crash-course in how to monopolize on the red-tape. It would have to be enough, and Gabriel’s wards could take care of the remaining risk of his family finding him through their faithful.

The thought of his brother made Castiel’s Grace pang with loneliness. That was the real reason he’d overstayed his welcome at Bobby’s. But he had a job to do, and family to protect, and he shouldn’t waste any more time. The angel made a note to ring Bobby the next day to let him know he’d chosen to move on.

In the meantime, he should look for his next hunt.

There was nothing suspicious in that day’s paper, so Castiel went to a motel and borrowed one of the rooms with another pang of guilt at the realisation that he didn’t have the money to pay for it. He couldn’t remember if Gabriel had ever bothered to pay as if he was human, or if he’d merely left the renovated rooms behind as compensation (which was, frankly, worth far more than a couple of weeks’ stay would have been anyway).

The angel wished he'd asked. He wished he’d done a lot of things. He wished it hadn’t been necessary for him to leave. He wished he’d searched for more information, both of the Gabriel now and the one from the future. That he hadn’t assumed, out of anger, that Gabriel was just like all the others.

_Stop,_ Castiel told himself. He had too many thoughts, alone. At least Gabriel, as annoying as he had been, had been able to keep the thoughts at bay. Now Castiel wasn’t certain how he was meant to cope. Perhaps that’s what the hunting was for, for so many hunters who continued. They kept the thoughts of past hunts at bay, those nights that drinking didn’t work.

The angel managed to keep himself from submitting just a little too deeply to his thoughts by abandoning the motel-room he felt guilty about using and roaming the town he’d found himself in, walking the streets strip by strip and memorising the cutter patterns. Just in case. Just in case there were any other ghosts and he hadn’t realized it.

It was peaceful, especially once night fell and the stars were out, though looking up at them made his chest ache and Castiel had avoided them thereafter. Finally, when the sun rose again and he judged the time was right enough as far as hunts went, he rang Bobby.

“Singer Salvage.”

“This is Castiel,” said the angel, and there was a strangely pregnant pause on the other end of the line.

“Yeah?”

Castiel frowned. If he didn’t know any better he’d have thought Bobby sounded uneasy. But Castiel had been in his house for two weeks and the hunter had never displayed any hostility or tension around him—not the sort to put that note in his voice. Bobby was too canny a hunter to be unnerved by many supernatural creatures, and the way he was talking, as if it was the revelation that Castiel was on the line that was making him nervous …

A drop of cold dread trickled down Castiel’s back. “What happened, Bobby?”

There was another long pause, and then Bobby said: “We had a visit from your brother.”

_Gabriel?_ For a moment Castiel couldn’t answer, so instead he asked, “We?”

“Me’n Rufus. Wanted to show him your trap and your brother showed up. Gabriel.”

Never before had Castiel wished so hard that he could see someone’s soul, so he could know what it was Bobby was holding back and how badly Gabriel had frightened them. “What did he do to you?”

There was thin scoff, the kind covering for something else. Like fear. “What makes you think he could do a damned thing to either one of us?”

“Bobby,” Castiel said, infusing his voice with as much patience as he could and still not quite able to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Whatever he’s done, I can fix it.” Then he had to stop, admit to himself that this wasn’t quite accurate, and add, “Most likely.”

A third long pause, and this one pulled Castiel’s nerves to stretching point. Then, finally, “Nothin’. He didn’t do anything. Just asked where you were.”

The relief that seeped through Castiel was so intense that he found he actually had to exhale and force himself to relax, his physical body suddenly fueled by adrenaline. It also let the fear dissipate enough for the angel to realize that the course of conversation had been deliberate, that the question had been deliberate, that he had all but revealed that Gabriel could and would do something to them that they wouldn’t be able to stop him from doing.

Something supernatural.

And if Gabriel was something supernatural then Castiel most likely was as well.

Castiel swallowed hard, even though he didn’t technically have to, and said carefully, “I’ve decided to go on to my next hunt from here.”

If Gabriel had been asking after him at the salvage yard, that meant he couldn’t track Castiel himself, likely because of his own wards. A twist of irony. As long as Castiel didn’t go back, Bobby shouldn’t be in danger. At least, Castiel hoped not. The bitterness the Archangel had displayed toward hunters didn’t bode well for if he couldn’t find Castiel himself and chose to take revenge.

Then he realized, with a chill, that whenever this had happened, Gabriel probably already knew where Castiel was and was in this very town right at that moment. If he hadn’t spent the time exploring the town, what would have happened? Would Gabriel have found the motel room, dragged him back, smote him?

“I think that’s a good idea.” Bobby’s voice was just as careful, but Castiel heard the relief in it.

“I will speak to you later, Bobby,” said the angel, and hung up. He’d have to leave right away, and start searching for a new job in another town. With a flutter of wings he was gone. 

It was only once he was three towns away that he realized that, despite Bobby's manipulation of the conversation, the hunter had never asked what they were.

 

What Castiel didn’t realize was that he wasn’t the only one who’d put a tracking sigil on the Winchester’s car. Or, more to the point, Gabriel had been perfectly aware that _Castiel_ had put one on, and that he knew exactly which one it was, and the frequency, and therefore knew exactly what to hone in on in order to see the car.

The Archangel didn’t know whether it was chance or prudence which meant he hadn’t been able to find Castiel in the postage-stamp town the salt and burn had been in, but it had left Gabriel standing at the site of the hunt in a fit of frustration enough to make him add a little extra fuel to the fire. Say, a bonfire’s worth. He would have gone bigger, but a wildfire for no reason other than to destroy was just tacky and no fun at all.

Some of the less likable people in the town suffered quite badly that night, however.

Gabriel darted back to the salvage yard in time to overhear the phone call to Bobby Singer and spent some time seriously contemplating wreaking havoc on Singer himself in an attempt to lure his little brother in. The hunter’s instincts were good, the Archangel had to admit grudgingly, because after an hour of being under a piercing amber gaze Singer actually started jumping at small noises and carrying a salt-gun around with him. He knew he was being watched, and took it seriously.

_Kinda like—_

Kinda like a good hunter did, Gabriel cut that thought off. Because a good hunter knew when to trust his instincts. Otherwise they ended up dead, and in that case they were just stupid hunters or too old to manage the lifestyle anymore.

And if they managed to get ‘too old to manage the lifestyle anymore’, it was usually an occasion worth a damned medal.

In the end Gabriel had left Singer alone, if only because it was stupid to be hanging around. There was also the fact that if he hurt the man Castiel would be pissed, and even though part of Gabriel kind of _wanted_ Castiel to be pissed there was a greater part of him which maybe didn’t want to ruin his chances of trying to convince his bro to give up the fight and come have some fun with him until the end of the apocalypse.

Surely that wasn’t too much to ask, to have a bit of company before the world ended? A bit of familial company?

Apparently.

Either way, there was one point of contact Gabriel knew he’d be able to manage, and that was the Winchesters. Castiel wasn’t going to leave them alone; no way on Earth. Therefore, they were Gabriel’s in, though just how the Archangel was going to manage that, he wasn’t yet sure.

When he found the Winchesters, all—well, most—thoughts of trying to stay in Castiel’s good books by being nice to his pet hunters flew the coop.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was small. The younger boy was curled up on a couch so ratty that Gabriel could only stare at it in disbelief at the fact that it hadn’t collapsed even under the weight of the four-year-old. The whole room, in fact, was definitely on the worst side of seedy motels; the wallpaper was peeling and the carpet, what there was of it, was clearly hazardous to walk on without stepping on something living. Even Dean, sitting on the other end of the couch, had his feet pulled up.

“What?” Dean’s voice was lackluster as he stared at the tiny black-and-white TV with such bad reception that the show they were watching was more about static-snow than it was about … what _was_ it about?

Gabriel laid a hand on the top of the set and the picture cleared. Cartoons. Nothing wrong with cartoons. Dean didn’t move, but Gabriel sensed the lightening in his soul, countered by the resigned belief that the clear picture wouldn’t last.

The Archangel left his hand where it was.

“I liked the other room. Can we go back there?”

“Can’t,” was Dean’s immediate, one-word response, and even though the older boy’s tone wasn’t exactly sharp, it still made Sam snuggle deeper into the huge moose-plush Gabriel had left him for Christmas. Already the Archangel could see where its fur was beginning to rub thin, and the kid had only had the thing for three frikkin’ weeks.

Anger turned slowly in Gabriel’s gut. He held himself tight in his vessel so he could revel in the physical sensation, his eyes narrowed to slits as he watched the pair. Dean had his impala on his lap, in much better condition than Sam’s plush. Sam showed his care by wearing the moose thin, but Dean showed it by keeping the impala meticulously well-kept.

“Why?” Sam asked, his voice muffled.

“’Cos Dad doesn’t have the money.”

_Because he hustled a hustler and lost,_ Gabriel read in the boy’s soul. Somehow, the fact that Dean didn’t even blame the man for it made the churn worse. The boy was disappointed they didn’t get a better room, but he trusted his father.

Faith. Such faith. Faith in a man who didn’t deserve it.

The TV snowed, the lights flickered, and Gabriel realized he was beginning to unfold outside his vessel. He brought himself back in, mentally growling at the fact that he could be brought to lose this kind of control by a pair of hunter’s brats, by his brothers’ _meatsuits_.

But it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for a father to abandon his sons. It wasn’t fair for them to have to stumble through life, trying to figure things out for themselves, when the very person they should have been able to _depend on_ went off and did fuck knew what.

_“Fine. I promise I won’t play tricks on the Winchesters while we’re in town.”_

Gabriel smiled darkly. Well, he’d kept that promise. He hadn’t played tricks on the Winchesters—for as long as he and Castiel had been in that town. But they were no longer in that town, were they? With a rustle of wings he was gone. 

Behind him, the TV fell again to static.

__

“You’re certain there’s nothing you can do?” John asked, trying to keep the exhausted desperation out of his voice and knowing he’d failed. It was all he could do not to lean on the counter as if it was the only thing holding him up.

Andy shook his head, pity in his eyes. The look helped John shore himself up, keep his tension in his arms so he loomed over the desk instead of slumping over it. “Sorry, John. I talked to the old man and he’s set. We could use the extra help, but he said he saw you being rowdy in a bar the other night and he’d hire you over his dead body.”

_Now_ John’s shoulders slumped, just fractionally, but his nod was curt. “Alright. Thanks.”

Without further ado he turned and strode out of the autostop, barely avoiding bumping into a customer coming in, and managed to make it around the corner before having to lean back against a wall. He took a deep breath, swallowing hard several times in a row to choke down the burn in his eyes and the knot in his throat. He couldn’t let his boys see him like this. It wouldn’t do for them to see their old man be anything other than strong. They needed him too much.

_We will get through this,_ he told himself, inside and not out loud in case someone heard his self-doubt. They _would_ get through this. They’d gotten through the immediate aftermath of Mary’s death, when things had been darkest and John hadn’t thought he’d ever again see the light of day. They had the car, and they had each other, and even though the motels were going to be shitty for a while they would be able to get food one way or another.

John hefted the wallet he’d pickpocketed as he left the mechanic’s, staring down at it, and because he was alone he let his face twist. One way or another. Right. He was down to this, then: stealing.

Stealing to survive.

It wasn’t like there was a union for hunters, he reminded himself. Someone had to do the job, hunt the things, save the people. If that meant he’d have to steal to make it through, then he’d damn well steal. He pocketed the wallet, straightened up, took a deep breath and headed for the Impala. They had to leave town, now. Maybe he’d have better luck elsewhere, if not with a proper job then with hustling someone less experienced.

The hunter had just pulled into the motel carpark when he saw the brown-haired man in a suit standing across the lot, peering at cars and glancing down at a photograph. John’s first instinct was to pull back out, but his sons were in this motel. He pulled into a space just as the man’s gaze settled on the car. When the stranger began walking across to him, it took everything John had to slide casually out of the driver’s seat, his body tingling with adrenaline.

“John Winchester?” asked the stranger, and gave him a controlled smile. “You’re a hard man to track down.”

“Can I help you?” John asked as civilly as he could manage, and still wasn’t able to avoid the hostility in his tone. The stranger didn’t seem fazed at all; he raised his wallet, showing John a badge that made the hunter’s gut tighten so hard and fast that he felt sick.

“Sylvester Wilton, Social Services. I’m here for your sons.”


	12. Masquerading as a man with a reason

Gabriel almost laughed at the way Winchester’s face drained of blood, the shock that left his soul momentarily crystal clear and not burdened by darkness and ripples. The Archangel saw, in that instant, all the half-formed plans that arose and were discarded almost as quickly. Attack, run, bluff.

“My sons are fine,” Winchester said, his voice strained.

“Yeah, I can see you’re taking _real_ good care of them,” Gabriel said drolly, taking a pointed glance around the tiny, litter-strewn parking lot. Its pavement was cracked, its curbs crumbling, the drain smelled like piss. The windows facing the lot had cracks in them or were so grimy as to make seeing out them impossible. The buildings’ plaster was peeling, the tiles falling off the roof. Winchester involuntarily followed his look and a bit of color entered his face. Not enough to make it look normal again, but enough to notice the difference.

With a quirked eyebrow Gabriel looked back at Winchester. Tight-lipped, Winchester looked back. The tension in his body, the set of his feet and shoulders, still said that either fighting or running were equal possibilities. “So. Which room did you say they were in?”

“I didn’t,” Winchester growled.

Gabriel smiled, and even though it wasn’t anything like his usual smiles, being calm and knowing and entirely in control instead of droll or slow or smirking, it was just as dangerous. “You don’t want to make me have to go to Reception for the number, Mr Winchester.”

In point of fact, he … well, he hadn’t, but he already knew the number. It was just that this was part of his rules: giving his target every opportunity to play along. To take the higher road.

They never did. Not the whole way, anyway.

_Is that because you choose the targets who never will, Gabriel?_ asked a voice which sounded like Castiel.

The Archangel ignored it.

“Thirteen,” Winchester said after a pause, his shoulders slumping as if he’d given in. Thirteen was roughly in the middle of the compound. The man was at least smart, because he was savvy enough to realize that Gabriel wouldn’t buy them being in a room close to Reception. But not savvy enough.

Gabriel resisted the urge to make an ‘eeh-err’ buzzer-sound. That would ruin the image he was trying to cultivate. “Wrong answer, Mr Winchester.”

Without any further explanation he turned on his heel and strode toward the room on the very end of the motel’s land, number twenty-four. Winchester didn’t say anything, but after a surprised moment Gabriel heard the man follow, his pace quicker so as to get in front of his unwanted guest. The Archangel wasn’t even looking at him, but he could still sense the consternation in the man’s soul without it. Winchester managed to get ahead of him just at the door, blocking access with his body.

“Isn’t there some kind of procedure we’re meant to go through?” he demanded, but speaking more loudly than he had been out in the parking lot. The sound of the television from inside the room didn’t change, but Gabriel sensed more than heard the heavy silence of someone deliberately trying to avoid making any noise, either to listen or to escape.

“Of course,” said the Archangel affably, “just as soon as we’ve confirmed the condition of your sons.” He paused significantly. “I understand you saw action in Vietnam, Mr Winchester?”

The man, Gabriel had to admit reluctantly, had good control. His whole body tensed and his fists clenched, but other than the frosty look Winchester gave him the human didn’t react violently to the obvious implication.

“I don’t hit my sons,” he said in a low voice. The disgust and righteous fury whirling in his soul sparked irritation in the Archangel. Was the man really this thick? Did he honestly, truly believe he was doing _good_ here, keeping his sons, his _children_ , in a place like this, on the road, without stability or even the basic affection kids deserved from their parents? It made Gabriel feel sick with rage, that kind of oblivious righteousness.

It reminded him of his brothers.

“You don’t have to,” Gabriel said coldly, “to be considered an unfit parent. Move.”

The longer they stood there, he knew, the more chance Dean and Sam would have of escaping at the window. And Gabriel could see that Winchester had absolutely no intention of moving; it was in his soul, yes, but Gabriel didn’t need to look at it to know. It was just in the way Winchester shifted, stance settling, the way he let his shoulders drop in readiness for a fight.

Gabriel turned and moved around him for the bathroom window on the end of the block. There was a split second in which nothing happened.

Then Winchester caught his arm and swung him around. The Archangel’s back hit the wall with an _oomph_ which might have winded him had he been human, but as it was he just dropped his clipboard, his hands flying up to catch Winchester’s fist coming at his face.

“Dean!” Winchester hollered, and now Gabriel heard the sounds of movement, the scrambling of tiny feet and the bang of a window. Out of the corner of his eyes, the Archangel also saw people watching. Witnesses.

Winchester’s fist slid through his grasp and he let it hit him in the face. It didn’t hurt; the Archangel removed himself just enough from his vessel so he didn’t feel the pain. It just made his earthly head snap back against the wall, and he staggered. When Winchester pushed away to run he gripped the man’s arm to prevent his escape.

It wasn’t a fight the Archangel had any intention of winning. He only put up just enough of one to keep Winchester’s attention, to ensure the man dealt him a few good ones in the right places, visible for witnesses to see. When the car screeched up beside them, eight-year-old Dean peering over the top of the wheel, Gabriel let himself slump to the ground, wheezing and bruised and groping for his phone as if to call for help.

Just a human. Just an ordinary human the boys got to see their father beat up.

As the Impala peeled away from the parking lot, now with Winchester in the driver’s seat, the Archangel deftly switched himself out for an equally bruised-looking self-construct. With a flap of one pair of wings he settled himself on the roof of the Impala, with a box of popcorn, to listen into _this_ conversation.

It took a while to begin, and though Gabriel was not surprised to hear it was Sam who began it, his mouth did tighten at that fact.

“Daddy? Who was that man?” asked the youngest Winchester in a small voice.

“Does it matter?” Dean snapped back before their father could. “He was gonna do something bad. You could tell.”

“But he didn’t,” Sam pointed out. “What was he going to do? He didn’t look dangerous to me.”

His soul was confused. Young and confused, and wanting reassurance that there had been a reason his father had been violent with a stranger, for their having to flee with only what they could carry. In Sam’s case, it was a tiny little bag slung over his shoulder. And a moose.

“Sometimes things can be bad without them needing to look like it,” Dean told him, his voice strained, with a glance at Winchester.

Because Sam didn’t know about the supernatural nasties. He was young enough that the two older Winchesters were protecting him from that truth. It was a wedge Gabriel could use.

And the Archangel read in Dean’s soul the roil of uncertainty as he glanced at his father a second time. Winchester gripped the wheel with white-knuckled fists, his jaw tight and gaze focused on the distance. He didn’t answer his eldest son’s silent query.

_‘That_ was _a monster, right?’_ Dean was asking, in the depths of his soul, wanting to trust but unable to find another way to explain what he’d seen. Winchester said nothing, and eventually Dean looked away, burying his doubt deep down where, with the right impetus, it might just sprout. Sprawled on the roof of the Impala, Gabriel grinned darkly and tossed a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. 

In the district behind them, someone left a tip on the police’s anonymous hotline that there had been a beating at one Acreview Motel. Half an hour later, the victim in question, a Social Services official, was pronounced dead en route due to a massive coronary caused by injuries sustained as the result of assault.

 

It was, Castiel was beginning to realize, easier to find hunts on his own than to rely on tracking them down through the newspaper. Every human had something to hide, something to be ashamed over, legitimate or not; every human had _problems_. A surprising number of them actually were caused by supernatural means, even though their victims may not have known it.

Over the course of the next two weeks he mostly dealt with low-level ghosts and poltergeists, the ones that caused no lasting harm except misunderstood fear and were frequently missed by hunters because they were just that low on the radar. The ones that hadn’t become truly mindless forces yet. He didn’t need to find their remains to send them on, which made things easier; in fact many of them were quite willing to talk for a bit before heading upward (or downward, as the case may be).

That was how Castiel found out about the Winchesters’ house.

The ghost was a decently new one—an amateur burglar, in fact, who had slipped on a child’s toy and smashed his head in on the mantle while trying to steal a priceless set of silver spoons. Castiel watched the man eyeing the spoons covetously while the family’s wife bustled around them with a two-year-old on her shoulder.

“I should have been able to get them,” he said with a moan. “They don’t even know what they’re worth. Just think they’re a nice set of spoons.” With a shake of his head the ghost turned toward Castiel and squinted at him through the light of the angel’s form, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m going to Hell, aren’t I?”

For trying to steal a set of spoons? Castiel wondered. Truthfully, the man could go either way. Most people who truly had nothing to fear wouldn’t be having any trouble looking upon him. Then again, the truly damned wouldn’t be able to look at him at all.

“I am not the one who will judge you,” he settled for saying.

The man sighed and glanced toward the spoons wistfully. The wife walked through him, shivered, faltered, and then was distracted when her daughter started wailing. “I suppose I may as well,” he said mournfully. “I’m not doing much here, and after that _last_ house …”

He shuddered, which was really more of a flicker in metaphysical space.

“The last house?” Castiel asked. Just like that, it seemed as if he’d found another hunt—before he’d even finished this one.

The man nodded, his ghostly fingers tracing the glass of the box in which the spoons were displayed. “There was something else in there,” he said quietly, and for the first time it seemed as if his focus was on his precious spoons not out of greed, but the need for comfort. “I mostly hid in the cupboard, protecting my spoons, but there was something else in there. Something evil. It … did things. Left knives lying about where the kids could find them. Pulled up the carpet on the stairs when someone was going down it. Wreaked havoc with the electrical appliances.”

He frowned. “It was the other one that was the strange part. The woman wrapped in fire. _She_ wasn’t too strong either, but she managed to stop the evil one from actually hurting anyone. It was weird. Like a microcosm of good and evil in one house. The good one was losing.”

That was, indeed, ‘strange’, Castiel conceded to himself, intrigued in spite of everything. “Where was this house?” he asked.

The ghost shrugged. “Lawrence. Lawrence, Kansas.”

And Castiel felt a chill of foreboding. 

 

It wasn’t hard to find the house, even though the ghost hadn’t paid enough attention to give him a complete address. It didn’t matter. Before Castiel had even gotten there, he suspected which house it was, and it was the first place he went.

He barely had to lay eyes on it to have his suspicions confirmed.

The Winchesters’ old house was, physically speaking, a nice two-storey building which had clearly only been rebuilt within the last five or so years; the paint still looked decently new. Metaphysically speaking?

It was a hole. The walls were stained black like someone had dumped a bucket of demon blood over it; the floors were similarly soaked; the roof looked rusted through; the lights were clouded with a metaphysical shadow. A _presence_. To call it a poltergeist would have been like calling a terrier a pit-bull.

The only thing keeping the house from being completely overwhelmed was the light glowing from a room on the second-story, what Castiel already knew had been the nursery.

As he watched (he watched for _hours_ , with the sort of horrified fascination with which he had seen humans watch car-wrecks), the owners pulled up into the driveway. The angel turned to observe them invisibly. Outwardly they looked like a normal couple coming home, but there was fear in their souls—the fear of the house, that they might be insane, but most of all the fear that they might _not_ be. They knew there was something wrong with this house. They’d already put it on the market.

“We should have put it in the ad,” whispered the man, but the woman shushed him, glancing nervously toward the house as if expecting whatever force was inside it to have heard. She was. She also, Castiel saw, had no intention of saying the house was haunted in their ad, or even implying it, more from the fear that no one would buy the place than being called insane.

He touched them both on the shoulder. “Go for a walk,” he suggested.

The woman’s face relaxed imperceptibly at the mere thought of the idea, looped her arm around her partner’s, and steered him down the driveway.

Castiel turned back toward the house and strode through the door. At once the presence closed around him, cloying and thick, but he let some of himself filter through his earthly vessel. Light bathed  the walls and the timber vibrated with an unheard shriek as the poltergeist pulled back from the shadow of his wings.

The angel walked through the house, his wings half unfolded and his voice a low rumble as he blessed the house in Enochian. Everywhere he stepped, the stains on the floor burned away, the runs on the walls fading, the lights shining as if reflecting Castiel’s own light back tenfold.

His voice didn’t falter even when the microwave flew at his head. He only lifted his hand to bat it away. With a screech of wood on wood, the chairs and the table flung themselves at him; one of the drawers yanked itself open and the knives inside hurtled toward him.

Undaunted, Castiel brushed aside the furniture. He let the knives impact his vessel, pulled them free and let them drop to the floor with a clatter, and continued on. The presence whirled around him, carrying furniture and utensils with it, screaming on a metaphysical level as it tried to stop him using all the physical weapons at its disposal. Everywhere Castiel went, the destruction of the couple’s property was left in his wake.

Castiel finished the lower storey and then chased the poltergeist upstairs. It went reluctantly, shreds of its presence still trying to creep down the walls until Castiel brushed them with the tips of his wings and the poltergeist recoiled.

Upstairs, the presence seemed to make the choice to retreat than fight. Doors slammed all around Castiel, the darkness fleeing from the walls and the lights toward the nursery. The angel strolled after it, his words taking on a harder timbre. He moved through the doors easily, undeterred by their being closed. Finally he stepped through the nursery, and for the first time his chant almost _did_ falter. The poltergeist stood in the middle of the floor, man-shaped but hunched and fingers dagger-like, raised defensively as weapons. Its feet were rooted to the floor, tendrils spreading out from its soles like the deep-reaching roots of a tree. It had no soul. It was just a force, and so it had no face.

That wasn’t what gave Castiel pause.

Over by the wardrobe there stood a woman aflame, so bright Castiel knew she was manifesting on the physical plane as a human-shaped pillar of fire. But Castiel saw the blondeness of her hair, the drawn line of her mouth, the hard determination in her eyes, and knew he was looking upon Mary Winchester.

“Get out,” she said, her focus on the poltergeist. Castiel repeated her comment in Enochian, and each syllable was so deep with gathered power that the floorboards shook and the presence flinched. With a wail the last of its tendrils shriveled and it burned up in the light of Castiel’s wings, leaving only a wisp of something sickly-sweet behind. That, too, soon faded.

Carefully Castiel folded his wings and brought them back into his vessel. The metaphysical light on the walls dimmed.

There was a siren pealing from far away, quickly approaching—a fire-truck’s siren. With a start Castiel realized that someone must have seen the flicker of flames in the window and assumed the worst, and he turned toward Mary. The fire around her was gone. She was watching him, her eyes slightly wide and her mouth an ‘o’.

“You’re an angel,” she said unnecessarily, and it occurred to Castiel, with a start, that this was very likely the first time she’d seen one of the Host or even gotten confirmation that they existed—and remembered it, anyway.

“Yes,” he agreed, and because it seemed like the right thing to do, he added, “I am Castiel.”

Mary nodded, still in a daze of wonder; the way her eyes moved, Castiel knew that she was tracking the shadow of his true form, even pulled into his vessel as it was. Then her gaze snapped together and she looked him in the eye. “Do you know where my sons are?”

Castiel hesitated for a moment, searching for the pulse of the tracking sigil. “Yes.”

“Are they safe? Are they with John?”

_Well, aren’t they a couple of loaded questions,_ laughed a voice which sounded like Gabriel, and Castiel only just restrained a flinch. He answered without thinking, “Which answer would you rather be the lie?”

Mary’s eyes narrowed, but then, even though it wasn’t technically possible for ghosts to pale, her soul flickered in a metaphysical equivalent. “Don’t tell me—please.” She cleared her throat, her voice wavering slightly. “Is John hunting?”

“Yes,” Castiel admitted, and Mary closed her eyes, her soul whirling with a mixture of despair and pride.

“Is he teaching my boys how to hunt?”

“Yes.”

For several moments Mary said nothing, did nothing, her inaction a counterpoint to the storm in her soul. The wail of the fire-truck came nearer, and Castiel heard the hubbub of people outside on the street. Then something in Mary’s soul settled and she opened her eyes.

“Are they going to need what he has to teach him?”

Now it was Castiel’s turn to not answer; in fact, he looked away, out the window, to see the truck rounding the corner, the couple who owned the house standing on the sidewalk down the street with a mixture of fear and hope. Would Dean and Sam need what John could teach them?

There was only one answer. The Winchesters were fated, yes, but to resist their fate they were going to need every possible skill they had or would learn over the course of their young lives. It was horrible, and unfair, but it was true.

“Yes.” His voice was barely audible.

Mary gave him a short, sharp nod, a motion which belied the anguish in her. “Then they should learn it. Everything. About hunting.”

For a little while they stood in silence. Downstairs the door slammed open and Castiel heard the voices of the firemen, the exclamations at the mess Castiel and the poltergeist had left behind. Footsteps sounded on the stairs as they raced up them. Doors opened and shut as they checked the other rooms.

“What are you going to do with me?” Mary asked in the moments of relative peace before the firefighters burst into the nursery.

Castiel debated. If he suggested she move on, Zachariah would only take her and put her soul somewhere that no one would ever be able to find it. Castiel never had discovered where Mary and John’s souls had been ‘stashed’, even after the apocalypse had been averted. Yet leaving her down here, to slowly twist into the very thing she had been keeping at bay, would be equally unconscionable.

Could he take her somewhere himself? he wondered. A little safehouse in Heaven, somewhere she could wait things out in safety, without the angels trying to take advantage?

It would take time. He’d miss Dean’s birthday.

A moment later the obvious answer to that dilemma came to him, and he almost smiled.

When the fire-fighters slammed through the door into the room, they found it pristine and completely untouched by fire or whatever malevolent force had swept through the rooms below.


	13. My charade is the event of the season

Dean’s shoulder was aching. His fingers hurt, too, because of the plastic twisted around them, but he just adjusted his grip on the bag and kept trudging along the pavement. He was getting very tired of tinned food, but it lasted the best. At least the occasional instant dinner broke up the monotony. Craning his head, he peered over his shoulder at the bag and eyed the box of Lucky Charms. Maybe if he was lucky he’d get a few bowls out of the box this time, before Sammy ate it all.

The motel they were in this time was a little better than the ones they’d been in and out of for the last two weeks—good enough that the TV reception was okay, anyway, and there were enough blankets. His heart beat a little faster at the thought of it.

Dad had sent him out to do their shopping. He _said_ it was because he was researching for a possible hunt in the area, but he also said to leave Sammy behind instead of take him with.

Part of Dean hoped that when he got there he’d find a birthday cake.

Another part told him he was a fool for even contemplating the idea.

Those two sides were warring as he entered the parking lot and approached the door, slowing down just because the anticipation of the  possibility was better than the certainty of disappointment. But the walk could only last so long, and then he was opening the door, his heart pounding with _maybe he’ll have remembered this time and there’ll be cake and presents and_ —

Dad’s head jerked up from where he stood at the table, loading silver rounds into his shotgun. “I was starting to get worried,” he said, and Dean’s heart leapt. The next it was crushed. “I found a lead on a possible … dog attack. Stay here with your brother. I should be back in three days, okay?”

He yanked a duffel onto his shoulder, one sitting on the chair hidden by the table. Dean licked his dry lips, translating his father’s words in his head from ‘dog’ to ‘werewolf’, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good man.” Dad clapped a hand to the boy’s shoulder and then moved past Dean with the focus of … well, of a hunter. And then he was gone. No mention of Dean’s birthday at all.

Trying to ignore the disappointed coil-uncoil of his stomach and the rubbery feeling in his limbs, Dean moved to put the bag on the table. Sammy, curled up on the sofa with his moose in his arms while watching TV, perked up at the sight of the colorful cereal box through the plastic.

“Lucky Charms! Can I have some?”

With a sigh, resisting the urge to let his shoulders slump, Dean went to get a bowl.

“Just so you know, your dad is a great big bag of dicks,” Gabriel told the boy just before Dean walked through him. Without missing a beat the Archangel spun around on his heel so he could keep talking, only this time there was the barest thread of Grace in his tone. “I mean, come _on_ , what kind of father misses his eldest son’s birthday? Seriously? And makes him do all the shopping while he prepares to indulge himself in a little mano-a-werewolf revenge? Does he even know that Lucky Charms are Sam’s favorite breakfast cereal?”

Dean was frowning as he got the utensils from the cupboard, taking them to the sink and giving them a quick wash even though they were supposedly clean. Just in case. His soul was rippling with the thoughts Gabriel was echoing—ones the boy buried deep and rationalized under ordinary circumstances, ones which the Archangel was nudging closer to the surface.

And he wasn’t even doing anything except saying the things Dean was already thinking.

“It’s not really fair, is it?” Gabriel asked casually, sitting on the counter and kicking his feet, conjuring a lollypop. “I mean, okay, so maybe _you_ could take not having a birthday, right? You’re  bigger and older, and you don’t _need_ to have a birthday. It’d just be nice to get one once in a while, y’know. But has Daddy dearest ever even celebrated _Sam’s_?” Gabriel pointed at the younger Winchester with his lollypop. Dean glanced over at his brother, following the train of thought like a duckling following its mother. “Go ahead, take a moment. I can wait.”

The Archangel sucked on the lollypop as Dean frowned and returned his attention to the bowl of Lucky Charms he was pouring.

_When was the last time we celebrated any birthday?_ he was wondering. Gabriel could already see the answer in the boy’s soul, but he just leaned back against the wall, observing and waiting for Dean to come to the conclusion himself. Free will and all that. It wasn’t the optimal result, but baby steps. Gabriel was patient.

It had to have been at Bobby’s house, Dean decided as he moved to pour himself a bowl of Lucky Charms as well, his mouth set in a semi-defiant line. (It was his _birthday_. He was allowed.)

That time at Bobby’s house, when they’d played hide-and-seek in the scrapyard until Dad had started freaking because Sammy had hidden himself a little _too_ well. That was, what, two years ago now? Whose birthday had that one been?

Sammy’s, he realized with a stab of relief. It had been Sammy’s. Dad _had_ celebrated one of Sammy’s birthdays.

The boy looked down at his bowl of Lucky Charms and his stomach turned over sickeningly with guilt. He’d started doubting his _father_. Of course Dad had celebrated one of Sam’s birthdays. His third birthday, that was it. Dean had tried to show him all the parts of a car just before they played hide-and-seek, except Sammy had been more interested in pulling them apart.

_And then you got yelled at,_ part of him whispered, _just for having a bit of fun. I mean, Bobby’s is a safe place, right? Why’d Dad have to yell at you like that?_

_Because Sammy could have gotten hurt among all the cars,_ Dean answered himself stubbornly. _There was all that sharp metal and stuff. It was stupid. Monsters aren’t the only ones that can get us._

“Dean?”

Sammy’s voice broke Dean’s concentration and he looked up to see his brother shuffling a bit shyly toward him, his moose under one arm and the half-finished milk bottle in the other. He tried to gesture with the bottle, but even half-filled it still weighed his arm down too much. “I brought the milk.”

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean said after a moment, taking the milk and carefully pouring some into each bowl. Sammy rested the moose’s head on the countertop and then his chin on that, watching.

Then, very quietly, he said, “Happy birthday, Dean.”

Dean froze in the process of capping the milk-bottle, his jaw and throat working for a moment. Then he resumed what he was doing, carefully not looking over as he said a little hoarsely, “Thanks, Sammy.”

“I wanted to bring you a flower from the park,” Sam said, “but we didn’t go there this morning and there aren’t any flowers around here.”

This time Dean looked away, pretending it was because he was returning the milk-bottle to the fridge, but Gabriel saw the fierce way he blinked the tears gone. The Archangel said and did nothing except suck his candy, his face blank. “It’s okay, Sammy. Maybe we can go after we’ve finished our Lucky Charms, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam agreed, and then abruptly rushed forward to hug Dean around the waist from behind. The next moment he was gone again, scrambling onto the seat at the table so he could reach his bowl, spoon already in hand.

Dean stood frozen in front of the open fridge.

“It’s not right,” Gabriel said, “when your four-year-old brother has to be the one to make you feel better on your birthday because your father forgot it.”

Something resonated in Dean’s soul, so sharp and vibrant that for a moment Gabriel actually heard the tone of it. Like a violin, mournful and somber. The Archangel smiled, and there was nothing pleased or mirthful about it.

He’d just found which tune to play on Dean.

“Come on, Dean, your Lucky Charms are gonna get soggy!” The way Sam sounded, you’d think soggy Lucky Charms were the worst thing someone could ever have to endure in the world.

“Coming.” Dean sniffed and scrubbed his face, and when he turned around it was with a smile that gave no evidence he’d shed any tears at all.

“And then we can go to the park!” Sam exclaimed, bouncing in his seat as he shoved a big spoonful of cereal in his mouth.

“Whatever, Sammy,” Dean said tolerantly in that manner of an oldest kid who felt they had to keep up the appearances of being annoyed, but really weren’t. Gabriel smirked and touched the box of Lucky Charms. If nothing else it would drive the oldest Winchester _wild_ when he realized his kids had been eating day-fresh cereal from the same box for weeks on end. That is, if Winchester even realized the box wasn’t going empty.

Chances were he wouldn’t.

“But hey, what’s a birthday without presents?” Gabriel asked the pair with a shrug, hopping down off the counter. At least this way Dean would get his fair share, and after Christmas he shouldn’t get _too_ suspicious. Not enough to stop eating them, anyway.

The Archangel had intended to leave them there so he could vent on someone else in town, but then there was a flutter in reality, like a butterfly beating its wings against a window. There was a soul coming, one that _wasn’t_ attached to a physical body. And it wasn’t alone. 

He couldn’t tell exactly what was with it, and that told him exactly who it was; because he’d drawn those sigils, and he knew the nature of that slipperiness, and really, he’d been expecting Castiel for hours now. Gabriel stepped smoothly into another plane, where not even Castiel would be able to see him, and leaned back on the counter to watch.

When Castiel finally landed in the Winchesters’ motel room, he had already chased the Impala through several city blocks before realizing that Dean and Sam weren’t in there, because John had apparently gone off on another hunt. It took him a little bit more time than that to figure out which motel they must be in, particularly as he was flying slow. He didn’t _think_ an angel flying at top speeds could harm a soul—at least, he knew that was true of a soul contained within said angel—but he was carrying this one in his arms and given who it was, it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.

So he landed in the motel room and was already, very carefully, pouring Mary’s soul from his cupped hands before he’d even looked around.

His vessel’s heart clenched once he had. It wasn’t the worst of rooms he’d seen in Dean and Sam’s souls, but it was still bad enough that the angel felt almost guilty at showing it to their mother. At least, he saw, the boys looked happy—Sam was chattering away and Dean was answering tolerantly in a tone which said he wasn’t nearly as annoyed with his brother as he might have been not actually pretending.

At first Castiel was so relieved to see the boys at least happy that he didn’t notice anything wrong. Then, with a frown, he took a step closer to Dean, peering into the boy’s soul at the ring of doubt he didn’t remember seeing last time he’d come to visit, trying to trace it back to its source.

“This is the kind of place he’s keeping them in?” Mary’s horrified voice snapped Castiel from his concentration and he looked around at the woman, resisting the urge to wince. Mary looked around the motel room, her wide eyes lingering on the tatty sofa, the obviously battered TV, the peeling walls. Then, abruptly, her gaze snapped to Castiel. “Tell me this is out of the ordinary!”

“Er …” The angel looked around, following the same path Mary’s gaze had taken, and found himself at a loss for words. “It isn’t—so bad as some of the places they’ve stayed,” he offered tentatively.

Mary’s mouth drew to a thin line. “Where is John? I couldn’t see when you were carrying me.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted. “He was driving somewhere when I tracked the Impala.”

“Could you find him again?” Mary demanded, and Castiel didn’t hesitated before answering.

“Yes.”

If anyone could curb John Winchester’s unintentionally destructive tunnel-vision, it would be Mary Winchester—even in the form of a visitation from the afterlife. Perhaps  even _especially_ in that form.

“Good.” Her eyes were flinty, and Castiel was abruptly very glad that he was not John Winchester. Perhaps it was Dean’s memories of her coloring his perception, but Mary Winchester was a strong woman who was, currently, exceedingly displeased with her husband, and for whatever reason, Castiel didn’t want to be on the receiving end of her wrath. “You said I could communicate with my family in their dreams. Tomorrow night, you take me to him.”

_Tonight is for Dean,_ went utterly unspoken. It wasn’t needed; the woman’s gaze flickered to her eldest son, her expression softening, and she reached out to stroke his hair even though he wouldn’t be able to feel it.

Sam’s spoon clunked into his empty bowl and the younger boy threw up his hands, beaming. “Finished!”

“Go put on your shoes,” Dean ordered while he scooped up the Lucky Charms he’d very carefully nudged to the side of the bowl to eat last. Grabbing up his moose, Sam jumped down from the chair and shot over to the sofa, pulling his secondhand sneakers on and, with careful concentration, tying his laces.

“Did you give him that?” Mary asked softly, her eyes on Sam’s moose and her hands still resting protectively on Dean’s head. The boy slid out from under them as he stood and took the plates to the sink. Castiel’s throat tightened, and for a moment he couldn’t answer.

“No,” he said in a low voice. “They were—that was a Christmas gift from … from one of my brothers.”

“ _They_ were?” Mary asked, pouncing on his slip.

“Dean got an impala. The deer.”

For a moment neither of them said anything, watching Dean wash up the bowls and Sammy finish tying one shoe and then the other. Castiel was trying, very hard, not to look around, not to draw attention to his words, willing Mary silently not to ask or probe. Then Mary laughed softly, suddenly, her tone full of wonder. “I always used to tell Dean angels were watching over him. I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed softly.

_And you may wish you had been wrong,_ he added to himself.

“What did you give them?” Mary asked, and Castiel blinked, somehow surprised by the question.

“I made them a Christmas lunch,” he answered honestly, too off-balanced to try and downplay his own gift or role in trying to make their Christmas something special.

“Hurry up, Dean!” Sammy was already by the door, bouncing up and down on his toes, his moose clutching under one arm.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Dean shot back, leaving the wet plates on the sink and drying his hands on a towel. He tossed it over the back of the chair and went to the door, holding his hand out for Sammy’s.

“Thank you,” Mary said softly, watching as Sammy took his big brother’s hand with a beatific smile; as Dean smiled back down at him automatically; as they both left the motel room, Sammy tugging Dean forward in his eagerness to make his brother happy. 

Castiel didn’t say anything in return. He couldn’t. His vessel’s throat had chosen to stop working.

 

Dean flopped down on his bed with a happy sigh, too contented to even feel guilty at the loud groan in the springs. Sammy was dead to the world on his own bed, snuffling softly against his moose’s brown fur and curling up like a—like something soft and furry in a nest. Or something. Dean grinned at him.

It had turned out to be a good day after all. Okay, so he hadn’t gotten a cake, and he hadn’t exactly gotten _presents_ , but Sam had collected up a whole bunch of … well, Dean had told him flowers were too girly to give to a guy for his birthday. Instead Sammy had found some really nice rocks and a thong of leather in a bin outside some kind of alternate clothing shop.

“You could make a sling!” his brother had squealed. “Like Pastor Jim was tellin’ me David did with Goliath!”

It wasn’t, Dean had to admit, a terribly bad idea, and the strip of leather had been obviously tossed away as scrap, so he hadn’t felt bad about taking it.

The park itself had been empty, because it was during the day when nearly everyone else was in school. Dean was technically supposed to be going, but they weren’t going to be in the area for long enough and no one had, luckily, asked them about it. They’d had the park to themselves and had been able to play hunters and monsters, or hunters and hunters, really, since Dean wasn’t going to hunt his brother and Sammy refused to hunt Dean on his birthday. Then they’d found an old tennis ball someone who’d obviously owned a dog had left behind, so Dean had taught Sammy how to catch and throw.

On the way home an ice-cream man had needed someone to replace some flyers that had been torn down. There had only been four of them, but the store had been so busy that the man hadn’t been able to leave to do it himself, so he’d promised Dean an ice-cream if the boy did it for him. When Dean had tried to give his ice-cream to Sammy instead, and Sammy had refused, the man had said he had more flyers he’d forgotten about and if Dean put them up too it’d be worth a second ice-cream.

The boy knew the man had been lying, that he hadn’t needed more flyers at all, and what’s more knew the man had known he’d seen through the lie; but it saved Sammy from the strain of trying to be a perfect little brother and it meant Dean got to have an ice-cream after all, so Dean hadn’t called the man on it.

They had been good ice-creams, too. Not the kind that was just ice around vanilla on a popstick, but in an actual wafflecone and with  two big scoops apiece.

Maybe tomorrow the man would have some more odd jobs Dean could do. He was nine now, and good with his hands. He’d been helping Dad maintain the Impala for a whole year.

Somewhere in-between remembering and imagining, Dean fell asleep. Because there’d been visions of ice-creams and jobs and _acceptance_ in his head just beforehand, his mind segued neatly into him working at an ice-cream store, giving Sammy ice-creams all day and knowing that when Dad got back he’d have a whole bunch of his own money to give him to help tide them over. Maybe even enough for a proper hotel!

Somehow, the boy wasn’t even surprised when he turned around from stacking the wafflecones to find his mother sitting at the counter, spinning lightly on the revolving stool and watching him with a smile.

“What can I getcha, pretty lady?” he asked in a perky tone and with a cheeky grin.

She pretended to think for a moment. “I don’t suppose you’d have a prince in shining armor?”

Dean’s grin widened, and because it was a dream, even though he _knew_ she was dead because a monster had killed her, he didn’t even feel sad at the reminder of the game they’d used to play. “Sure,” he said. “Is it okay if he’s on foot? I don’t have my black steed right now.”

“As long as he’s righteous, it doesn’t matter,” Mom teased, and they both laughed.

A moment later Dean’s laugh caught in his throat and his smile faded, because she _was_ dead and this _was_ only a dream, and it was probably going to end in fire like all his dreams of her did. “I wish I could wake up before you die again.”

Something ran across Mom’s face and she stood, coming around the counter to crouch and wrap him in her arms. Dean hugged her back without shame, his eyes burning and throat tight, because this was _his_ dream dammit and he should be allowed to grieve for her in his own dreams. Even though he was older now, it still felt like he came up to the same place he had when he was only four.

“You won’t get to see that this time,” she promised quietly, her fingers moving through his hair, a comforting stroke that made the tears spill down his cheeks.

“I miss you so much,” he said, and his voice was thick. “Sammy doesn’t even know who you are. He asked me what you looked like last week and I don’t even have a picture of you to show him.”

_I don’t know if I’d be able to show him,_ he confessed in his heart of hearts,  but it was a dream and she wasn’t real so he knew she’d understand anyway. For a moment she didn’t say anything; she just kept stroking his hair. So Dean didn’t say anything either—he just hugged her, breathed in her perfume, and clung to the moment for as long as he could.

“It’s okay if it hurts too much to tell him,” she said after a while. “But I think it would hurt less if you did, once you feel like you can. Sharing burdens—makes them less.”

There was something odd in her tone, something sad, that made Dean’s gut turn over and the boy want to do anything she asked so she wouldn’t sound like that again. He sniffed. “I’ll try.”

Her whole hand moved over his head in a protective caress. “I’m so proud of you, Dean. My brave boy. I love you.”

Something in Dean’s chest clenched fiercely with pride and hope, and he hugged her more tightly, as though if he did so hard enough he wouldn’t lose her again. The dream-world moved around them. Sammy ate ice-cream happily in a booth, chattering to the nice ice-cream man who supplied him. People moved in and out, and cars drove past, just like an ordinary ice-cream parlor.

Behind the counter, a boy hugged his mother, and nothing else existed, because nothing else was as important as right there and right now.

When Dean woke the next morning, he rolled onto his side so he could dry the tears he’d cried during the night without Sammy seeing him. The first thing he saw was the bedside table, and on it was a brand-new baseball glove with a picture of Mom in the curve of its palm.


	14. And if I claim to be a wise man

John slept fitfully. He’d had some bad nights after he’d come back from Vietnam, especially when people heard where he’d been and didn’t react well. Not everyone had agreed with the decision to be involved in that war. At the time, he’d thought those nightmares had been terrible.

Now he could only wish he could go back to that time and know those were the worst dreams he’d have.

Tonight’s was especially bad. Bad because, after it was all over, after he’d seen Mary on the ceiling and the house burn and the figure in the flames, he’d looked up and Mary had been standing there in front of the Impala. Even knowing it was a dream, he’d frozen, Dean and Sam in his arms. If she’d been a monster wearing Mary’s face there would have been nothing he could do; he just stood there, wide-eyed and breath quick, as she approached and cupped his cheek, her expression intense like it got when she had something absolutely important for him to understand.

“John,” she said, “you have to let me go.”

Whatever he’d expected, that wasn’t it. In fact, in those moments in which his brain had disengaged, John barely took them in at all. Then he croaked, “What?”

“Let me go,” Mary repeated. John took a deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself again the warmth of her palm on his cheek. As if she was real. As if she was there, standing before him.

“Mary—” His voice broke.

“This isn’t a good life for them, sweetheart,” she said softly, but he heard every word as if it was whispered in his ear.

“There’s things out there,” he said, opening his eyes and unable to keep the waver out of his voice. The desperation. “There’s things out there, Mary, and they have to be prepared—”

She laid a hand over his mouth and his words cut off. He stared at her, taking in her face, her hair, her eyes, the smile-lines, the way she held herself. She was still wearing her nightgown. It was just a dream, but his chest ached as if his heart had been torn out all over again. “Not like this,” she said firmly. “John, it was Dean’s birthday yesterday and you didn’t even celebrate it.”

Realization ran through him like an electric current. No, it couldn’t have been. Not yet. That was still months away—wasn’t it?

_No,_ he thought. _It wasn’t._

“There’s a werewolf—”

“Have you stopped and looked at the state of the motel room you’re staying in?” she interrupted him, and now her eyes were focused and hard in that way they got when she wasn’t just angry at him, but _disappointed_.

“It’s all we could afford,” he said weakly. She huffed, rolled her eyes, folded her arms.

“Get a job, John. Get a job, settle down somewhere, find the boys a home and a school to go to. Teach them how to hunt, but do it from one place. They don’t have to live like this. They _shouldn’t_ have to live like this.”

_Was_ this a dream? John could still hear the crackle of the fire, the shouts of the firefighters, but it all seemed distant. Dean and Sam were heavy in his embrace, but even they felt not-quite present. Here, now, with Mary, felt realer than any dream or memory he’d ever had of that night. And the words she was saying—it was unlike anything she’d said before in a dream. They weren’t accusations, like she’d screamed at him in the past. They were statements. Judgments.

She wasn’t blaming him for failing her. She wasn’t even blaming him for failing their sons. She just expected him to do better. It was all she ever expected, when he did something wrong. To own up, and to improve.

That was why he found himself saying, his voice thick, “Okay. I—I’ll find someplace.”

Her expression morphed into relief, and there were tears in her eyes as she lifted her hands. It wasn’t until she wiped his cheeks that he realized he was already crying. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, John Winchester. Be safe.” 

She leaned forward and kissed him, and he woke with a jolt, his breathing ragged and face wet, the smell of her perfume lingering so close that he almost expected to turn over and find it all a dream, find her there beside him. But she wasn’t, it wasn’t, and when John found nothing but the empty space behind the Impala’s two front seats beside him he put a hand to his face and waited for the tears to stop coming.

__

The Roadhouse wasn’t quite what Castiel was expecting. It was almost more a saloon than a roadhouse, but Castiel wasn’t aware enough of the differences to be able to name them. All he knew was that it didn’t look the same inside as the other roadhouses the angel had been to. Perhaps it was the lack of booths inside. Or perhaps it was because it was a hunters’ roadhouse.

Either way, the angel stopped for a moment after coming through the doors, just to look around, to take in this place that had been Ellen and Jo’s. From the outside it looked like a renovated house, a house that had been gutted to make space for the main room. Castiel supposed any living areas were at the back. Everything was timber—the beams were high and wide, the tables scattered, and there was an air of spaciousness and privacy he well imagined hunters appreciated.

It wasn’t empty, but the size of the area made it seem emptier than it was. There was one group of three at one of the tables to the side, celebrating a hunt gone well, and another at the back, nursing his drink in such a way that even if Castiel hadn’t been able to see the man’s soul he would have known not to approach. Some others were around too—not hunters but tourists, roadtrippers, people passing through the town down the highway.

There wasn’t anyone behind the counter that he could see, but when he approached it, glancing around for Ellen or Jo and unsure whether he wanted to see them or not now that he was here, he heard a voice.

“May I help you?”

It came out more like ‘May I hep you’. Castiel looked down. There, standing on a stool behind the bar, was a girl with blonde pigtails, a determined expression, and a diaper. Until now Castiel hadn’t quite realized that Jo and Anna had been born in the same year, but at this moment the angel flashed back to the first time he’d seen his child-sister, that night before Christmas. Jo’s voice was even less articulate than Anna’s had been, the little girl still in the stage of learning speech … as well as mimicry.

“Is Ellen here?” he asked.

Jo tilted her head, tugging on a pigtail. Apparently he had deviated from the script already. “Who?”

“Your mother,” Castiel clarified.

“She’s in the back,” Jo said, and repeated with a sort of stubborn determination to get back on track, “May I help you?”

Castiel hesitated. He really didn’t know what he meant to say to Ellen, if anything at all. Perhaps just introduce himself. The Roadhouse was a place he needed to visit, for the sake of his hunts if not for himself. “My name is Castiel.” He was going to leave it at that before realizing he should have a precedence for knowing her name. “What’s yours?”

“Jo,” said the girl, leaning her chubby arms on the counter and resting her chin on them. Her eyes trailed down his body and then up again. “Are you a hun’er, Cas—Casy-el?”

Unbidden came the memory of Claire trying to pronounce her words correctly, her face screwed up with effort and concentration, and something in Castiel’s chest tightened. “You can call me Cas,” he said.

“Cassy,” Jo repeated solemnly, and blinked at him. Despite himself Castiel huffed a chuckle, and then looked around for Ellen again, and for a few moments there was silence while Jo stared at him. Dean had often complained that Castiel stared too much, but until now Castiel hadn’t quite been aware of how uncomfortable a sensation it could be.

Finally Jo demanded, “Well?” Castiel tore his gaze away from a particularly dark shadow in the corner of the ceiling, only semi-aware that he had been casing the room for good places to leave warding sigils, and returned his attention to Jo. She huffed. “Are you a hun’er?”

Oh. “Yes,” Castiel answered, and Jo nodded.

“E’ryone comes here are hun’ers,” she confided, and at that moment Ellen arrived, lugging a crate of bottles.

“Joanna Beth Harvelle, down off that stool,” she ordered, and Jo made a face before complying with a grunt. It was so tall that she had to lower herself down on her stomach, toes stretching to reach the floor. Ellen came to the counter and heaved the crate up onto it, Jo gripping her pant legs. “Can I help you?”

The way she said it, Castiel realized, was a way Jo’s youthful inability to speak had softened: suspicious, a tad incredulous, and skeptical. Most people he met tended to use that tone and wear that expression; it was something to do with the way he dressed, apparently.

It felt strange coming from Ellen all over again. Almost as strange as it had felt coming from Bobby, even though Castiel hadn’t known Ellen as well. He knew enough, and his vessel’s chest admittedly felt a bit tight, though he couldn’t tell if it was relief at seeing her alive or grief at the memory of her death.

“My name is Castiel,” he said. “I’m—new—to America’s hunting community. Bobby Singer gave me your address as a possible source of intelligence.”

“Huh.” Ellen surveyed him for a moment longer, and the look on her face was as if she was assessing him and finding him wanting, but then she shrugged and turned to break open the box. “Plenty of hunters drop by here. You want info, you’ll have to ask them.”

“Who would you recommend?” Castiel asked.

“Who’d Bobby give to you?” Ellen countered, and Castiel dug into one of his trenchcoat’s pockets to find the list. Ellen gave it a cursory a look, but then handed it back. “Ain’t much I can add to that. Bill might be able to give you a couple more.”

“Is he here?” Castiel turned to look around.

“Just missed him,” Ellen told him, unpacking the bottles from the crate. “Just went off to help a friend bag a werewolf. He’ll be back in a week or so.”

Castiel took a moment to consider while Ellen finished unloading her stock, the clink of glass on the countertop an oddly soothing background to his thoughts. There wasn’t much need to wait around, nor to seek Bill Harvelle out directly. The Winchester boys needed watching, of course, and Castiel intended to return to them. He had left Mary, at her request, to guard them, but he had to take her up to some part of Heaven soon—she had already been on Earth for a number of years, after all. It wouldn’t be good for her to wallow and wish for too long.

“Very well,” he said. “I will return later. Thank you, Ellen.”

Without pausing for a reply he turned and strode for the door, but someone else entered just as he made to exit, abruptly enough that Castiel was taken by surprise. He was so off-balanced by the fact he _had_ been surprised that he actually stumbled as he tried to avoid the newcomer and keep himself from phasing right through them.

Only then did he actually look up and freeze. Gabriel stood before him, a wide grin all over his face and an odd combination of anticipation and something approaching coolness in his eyes. His hands were in his pockets and the Archangel rocked back on his heels as if surprised himself. “Weeeeell, lookie here!”

“Gab—” Castiel began, his gut clenching with some mix of dread and excitement and guilt, but Gabriel interrupted him by throwing an arm around his shoulders and turning him forcibly toward the bar. It was a companionable motion which let Castiel feel all the faux-casual tension in the Archangel’s vessel, let him see the hardness of the Archangel’s smile behind the sincerity it pretended.

What was he even doing here? This was a hunter’s bar. Gabriel hated hunters.

Unless Castiel had been less careful than he’d thought. Unless Gabriel had been following _him_. But how had he found him? Gabriel himself had admitted the wards he’d drawn worked as well on him as anyone else.

“No, no, little brother!” the Archangel was saying, apparently oblivious to the way Castiel was semi-hunched to fit under his shorter brother’s arm. “I hear some kind of _celebration’s_ in order, am I right?”

Despite the cheer, his tone was cutting. Castiel flinched.

“He bothering you?” Ellen asked with a frown, jerking her head at Gabriel. Castiel shook his head almost violently.

“It’s—fine,” he said shortly.

“You bet your trenchcoated ass it is,” Gabriel said, and slapped the counter, leaving a couple of bills on the surface. “Two bourbons served by a pretty lady are just what this hunter ordered.”

“ _You’re_ a hunter?” Ellen asked suspiciously, crossing her arms over her chest and making no move to fill Gabriel’s request. Jo stood half-hidden behind her legs, her thumb halfway to her mouth and staring up at Gabriel with a startled ‘o’ curving her mouth.

“Retired,” Gabriel told her, and gripped Castiel’s opposite shoulder so tightly that he felt the pain. “Unlike _some_ people I could mention.”

“Please, Ellen,” Castiel said quietly. Ellen looked between them assessingly for a few moments longer before grunting and turning around.

“Two bourbons, comin’ up.”

The instant her back was turned Gabriel shoved Castiel down on a barstool and drew one up himself. “So?” he demanded in French. “Having second thoughts yet?”

Castiel couldn’t look at him. Instead he watched Ellen and Jo behind the counter, then realized that was probably considered rude and stared past them to the back wall instead. He answered in the same language. “No.”

Gabriel scoffed his displeasure at this assertion, then smirked and followed his younger brother’s gaze. “Give it time. That’s Ellen?”

“And Jo. Yes.”

“Huh.” For a long moment there were no words, and Castiel could almost— _almost_ —believe that nothing had happened, that they were just there because it was somewhere Gabriel had picked on his roadtrip. Almost. If not for the tension around his brother that practically vibrated the air, even without the influence of his Grace.

Castiel wanted to apologize but couldn’t. He was doing the right thing, in this time, and in the future time that never would be—well, he had done wrong by Gabriel, but Gabriel had done wrong by him too. And that Gabriel no longer existed, anyway.

“How did you know I was here?” he finally asked in a low voice.

“I have my ways,” Gabriel said with a shrug. Castiel supposed he couldn’t have expected Gabriel to give him a straight answer. There were an number of ways he could have done it, too. The angel opened his mouth to say he-wasn’t-sure-what, something to probe further for good or ill, but was interrupted.

“Are you a hun’er?”

Both angels automatically looked down at the blonde girl, back to standing on her stool and with her arms resting on the counter, blinking up at Gabriel. For a moment Gabriel was nonplussed, but then he recovered a moment later.

“What, are you deaf, kiddo? Didn’t you hear me before?” he asked, but Castiel noted, with a disturbing lack of surprise, that his voice was softer, less caustic and more teasing than it would have been had he been talking to an adult. Jo’s brow wrinkled as she tried to parse his tone to what he said, but in the end all she seemed to get was that he was playing with her and she pouted.

“Are you a _hun’er_?” she demanded. “On’y _hun’ers_ are ’lowed here.”

“Like them, you mean?” Gabriel jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder toward a tourist family, still looking at Jo as steadily as she was looking back, except that his intensity was better-hidden. A chill of premonition ran down Castiel’s back.

Jo’s gaze flickered momentarily past them to follow the motion before resettling on Gabriel, and she shrugged. “Cash cows.”

“Is that so?” Gabriel grinned, and there was something sharp in his grin that went over Jo’s head and made the prickle on Castiel’s spine deepen. “And just what do Mommy and Daddy buy with that cash?”

“Brother—” Castiel began, but Gabriel made a ‘mouth shut’ gesture which, to all outward appearances, Castiel willingly obeyed. He found it hard not to; there wasn’t much to say when one didn’t have a voice.

“No, no, Cassy! Let her speak!”

Jo seemed to realize something was happening, if not what. Her brow furrowed again and her eyes shifted from Gabriel to Castiel and back. “Mommy buys the booze for the hun’ers,” she said with the sort of tone of someone who was parroting something they’d heard. “Daddy buys the weap’ns.”

“Does he now,” Gabriel murmured, and the veneer of civility thinned further. His Grace was still leashed enough that the electricity wasn’t reacting, but only because it was pressing Castiel into his seat instead. Desperately the younger angel looked around as if there was anyone around who might help him, but the group of hunters were too drunk to notice and the one alone was too depressed.

“Yep,” Jo said with a nod, still staring at Gabriel with wide eyes, half fascinated and half frightened. As if she knew something was wrong, but not what. Not enough to stop talking. “But I’m gonna be a hun’er when I’m growned up. Then I can buy the weap’ns.”

Several things happened at once. Gabriel rose so sharply that it made his chair unbalance and crash to the floor. Jo recoiled at the expression of cold rage hardening the Archangel’s face. With a rush of empowered panic Castiel broke free of his brother’s absent pressure and seized Gabriel’s arm, shouting with his Grace—

_‘Gabriel!’_

He wasn’t sure how, but Castiel found himself halfway between Gabriel and the counter, gripping the Archangel’s shoulders. For all the tension in Gabriel’s body, he may as well have been a statue; this close, Castiel could feel the Archangel’s power rolling over and over under his wards like a storm confined. The younger angel looked at Gabriel’s face and wished he hadn’t; even without it directed at him, it was so sharp with fury that the Archangel’s golden eyes may well have been daggers. Then Gabriel’s gaze shifted and it _was_ directed at him, and Castiel’s mouth went dry. He had to resist the urge to pull out of his vessel, to draw his sword, to hone his Grace—it took a _great_ deal of effort not to do the last.

He was standing between an _Archangel_ and his target. _Again._ If Castiel survived long enough to stop the Apocalypse a second time without being smote by another of his eldest brothers it would surely be a miracle.

Jo began to cry. The tension in the air, so heavy that it had even seeped through the other hunters’ haze of drunkenness, eased. Gabriel exhaled , stepped back, and though he didn’t _relax_ , exactly, the way he tightened his wings around him brought his Grace under control  enough that Castiel didn’t feel as though he was about to be smote. Yet.

Slowly the younger angel released Gabriel’s shoulders and found his earthly hands trembling with the rush of adrenaline. He didn’t look away even when he heard Ellen’s rapid footsteps from in the back.

“Jo! Are you okay?”

“Mommy,” Jo whimpered. Castiel sensed the turmoil in her soul redirect as she clung to her mother, sensed the raw protectiveness in Ellen’s, so strong that he could feel it even without direct line of sight.

“What the hell did you _do_?” That question was directed at them both, but Castiel didn’t dare look around.

Gabriel’s face and Grace tightened again and he retook his step forward. “What did _I_ do, you—”

“Gabriel,” Castiel interrupted, matching step for step until their vessels were so close that, given how tightly Gabriel was under control within his, the Archangel had no choice but to look up at Castiel through his human eyes. Had Castiel not been so experienced at standing against those more powerful than he, he would have flinched at the frustrated rage in Gabriel’s face.

“These are the kind of _people_ you wanna hang out with, bro?” Gabriel asked in a low voice, not even bothering to switch languages.

“They’re good people,” Castiel said evenly, just as low, and Gabriel hissed wordlessly, his hands flying up in such a way as to make Castiel flinch and almost move back automatically. The Archangel only jabbed furiously at Ellen over the younger angel’s shoulder.

“Oh yeah, I can see how good they are, what with their _conditioning their fucking children_ _to get themselves killed_!”

His voice was rising. Out of the corner of his eye Castiel saw the tourist family stop and stare, whispering and frowning and a little afraid.

“Gabriel,” he said quietly, tilting his head in their direction. Gabriel’s head twitched almost violently toward them, but without his gaze actually leaving Castiel’s. His chest heaving, his hands shaking under the force of the wrath his vessel couldn’t really contain, Gabriel took a step back. And then another.

His presence filled the room; as small as his vessel was compared to Castiel’s, he didn’t seem small at all right now. The smile he forced onto his lips was a strange combination of brittle and hard—cutting, but as if it would shatter his expression at any moment. “You’re as crazy as the rest of our damned family, Castiel, hope you know that.” 

Castiel winced. The Archangel turned and strode out of the Roadhouse, and the emptiness left in his wake was somewhat akin to a devastating storm that had only just missed a fragile homestead.

__

Bill Harvelle had been on hunts with John Winchester more than once. They were friends, but there were things about John which made Bill … _concerned_ would be the best word to use. Hunters, on the whole, were an unhealthy bunch; Bill was less so than most, a fact he contributed to his wife and daughter. And even he had his issues.

The thing with John wasn’t just the fact that he was driven to the point of pushing aside all else, because most hunters were; most hunters were in the job for revenge. It wasn’t even the fact that John was almost a force of nature unto himself—unstoppable once he got rolling. That, again, wasn’t unusual for hunters.

It was the fact that John was driven _and_ had two young sons whom Bill had never met. The combination made Bill feel uneasy about these two boys whose father was so embroiled in a hunter’s life that he had lived out of his car for the last five years.

So when John phoned Bill, his voice rough with a potential dozen things, to ask for his help on a hunt, Bill had accepted. It was a give and take relationship that most hunters had—‘I’ll do you a good turn if you do me one’ sort of thing. But whenever he agreed to help John Winchester with a hunt, Bill always thought of those two boys and felt as if he was their representative in the interests of making their daddy come home safely.

Bill had Ellen to ensure that for himself. Who did John have?

The address John had given him wasn’t for a motel, but an abandoned parking-lot just across from a storefront, and Bill got there a couple of hours before nightfall. It was only as Bill was pulling in and saw the other hunter’s scruff, the rings under his eyes and the lines on his face that looked to be from a door-handle, that Bill realized John had probably slept in his car. That meant he didn’t have enough cash to spring for a motel room for himself.

John pushed himself off his car and strolled toward him as Bill pulled up and climbed out. “Bill. Thanks for coming.”

The man’s voice was even hoarser in person than it had been on the phone, and this close, Bill could see the redness in his eyes. He didn’t ask. He was thankful, every damn day, that he still had his family. He didn’t particularly want to know which mental demon had made John look like this.

He could probably guess anyway.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning back against the door to his truck. “Said you had a werewolf problem. Managed to figure out who it is?”

“Not yet,” John admitted, rubbing his eyes, and then nodded toward one of the stores. “But there was a disturbance in the jeweler’s last night. They pride themselves on using almost pure silver for their jewelry. Someone broke in and stole all their high end stuff. The same day the bakery lit on fire; the police found evidence someone had used their oven to melt down the silver.”

“Could be a hunter,” Bill suggested, playing devil’s advocate. “Or a wannabe, anyway, trying to smelt some silver bullets.”

“It’s possible,” John admitted after a moment. “Either way, we’ve probably got a werewolf problem on our hands. I’ve already cased the jeweler’s. Still working on details from the bakery, but they’re already seen me around the first crime scene under another cover.”

Bill nodded his agreement, already reaching back into his car to flip open his glove-box and unlatch the extra compartment at the back for his IDs. “Fire department?”

“Small and tight-knit,” John said promptly. “Better go with investigating for fraud. The bakery’s had a run of arson claims.”

“Got it.” Bill fished out the appropriate badge and leaned back to find his suit, hanging behind the driver’s seat under a matte cover which, at first glance, made it look as if the space behind it was utterly empty. “And you?”

“PI for one of the jeweler’s out-of-town clients. Only way I managed to get the info on the silver in the baker’s, but they tossed me out on my ass before I could get anything else.”

He sounded more tired than disgruntled, which wasn’t like John when he felt he’d messed up in some form or another. As Bill stripped down and pulled on his suit, he took another look at his friend out of the corners of his eyes. The man was gazing back across to the storefront, his eyes unfocused, lost in thought.

John, Bill decided, was definitely not at the top of his game, if he was letting himself get put off by a few small-town cops. No wonder he’d called in for help. At least he’d know Bill wouldn’t probe, which was probably why John had called him.

Bill was just leaning down to fix his tie in the rearview mirror, running a hand through his brown hair to straighten it, when John broke the silence with a question Bill had never quite expected.

“D’you know if there’s any jobs in town?”

Bill stopped, straightened fast enough that he almost hit his head on the roof of the car, and backed out more carefully.

“You’ve been here longer than I have,” he pointed out, and yet he didn’t think that was what John had meant.

That was confirmed a moment later when John shook his head. “I mean in your area. Thedford. I’ve been thinking—it might be time to settle down somewhere. It’s … it’s not good for the boys, what I’ve been doing.”

His tone was gruff and somehow distant, and he was definitely not looking in Bill’s direction. The hunter could only stare, aware his mouth was partly open. Despite everything, despite all his concerns, it had never occurred to Bill that John might _actually_ realize what kind of a lifestyle he was living and try to change it. “What brought this on?”

“I’ve just been thinking, lately,” was John’s unhelpful answer, and after a moment Bill shook himself, running his hands down his clothes to smooth them as he thought. The fact of the matter was that, as popular as the Roadhouse was, Bill and Ellen were the only ones who worked there long-term. They couldn’t hire people who didn’t know about hunting, and anyone who did were usually hunters themselves, not the sort who could settle down. Bill and Ellen were often cutting corners to give themselves enough time to rest, so an extra hand would be a godsend.

But not yet. He’d have to talk to Ellen about it first.

“There’s a few places,” he said at last. “You’ve got mechanic experience, don’t you? Might be able to spring you something with one of them. I’ll see what I can drum up once this job’s over.” John gave him a short nod, still determinedly not looking over, and Bill straightened his tie one last time. “You gonna take a look at the public records for animal attacks?”

“That’s the plan. I’ll see you back at this motel.” John handed Bill a scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it and Bill shoved it into his pocket, turning to slide into his car.

“See you on the flip-side, John.”

He was fairly sure he was just imagining, over the sound of his engine roaring to life, John’s murmured, “Thank you.”

Bill Harvelle pulled out of the parking-lot, the back of his neck crawling with the strange feeling that something major had just shifted the world on its axis and not quite certain what it was or why _this_ particular conversation should make him feel so badly at ease.


	15. It surely means that I don't know

There were a lot of things Mary missed about being alive. Having to sleep wasn’t one of them. Being able to touch her sons was. She watched them sleep, watched their chests rising and falling, Sam’s a little quicker than Dean’s just because of his size. The younger Winchester was curled up on the couch, his head in Dean’s lap, while Dean was still upright, arm on the side, in a vain attempt to pretend he was still awake. (At least, it _had_ been an attempt, right before he actually did fall asleep.)

Mary didn’t exactly have a body, but it still felt like her chest tightened as she reached out to smooth down her eldest son’s hair. He stirred a little, but then settled just as quickly, responding to developing instincts not quite developed _enough_ to really react. Even that much made the clenching sensation feel more distinct.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that a demon should target her family.

It wasn’t fair that she should die when her sons were so young.

It wasn’t fair that her husband should feel compelled to avenge her death.

It wasn’t fair that, after all her time spent ensuring her children would be freed of her family’s life, they should be flung headlong into it.

Her fist clenched and she withdrew it, taking a non-existent breath to try and calm the roll of fury under her ‘skin’. It had been easier when in the house, with something to do. It hadn’t been a matter of revenge, then; just the pure, driven _awareness_ that it was her responsibility to protect those in the house from the evil haunting it. That maybe, if she held on long enough, she would see her sons again. There hadn’t been anything angry about that urge. It had just been _need_. Obsessive need, perhaps, but not an enraged one.

This was different. She was out of that house and now she knew what her babies were going through. Now, she felt angry. At John, at Yellow-Eyes, at the universe.

At the rustle of wings Mary’s head snapped around and she glared without meaning to at Castiel.

“Why are you letting this happen?” she demanded. Even as she spoke she knew it wasn’t fair, but the angel was _there_ and they were meant to  be _guardians_ and she didn’t understand how they could just—

She was on her feet, she realized, her fists clenched and back straight as only a hunter’s could be. “You’re an angel,” she said, and her voice cracked. The way Castiel was looking at her, with a distant, strange sort of incomprehension, only made the roll in her chest worsen. “You’re an _angel_. Fix it!”

Something in Castiel’s gaze came together and it seemed like he finally _saw_ her. It was only in the shift that she actually realized what that incomprehension had been—a sort of distant shoring of the mental walls—and by then it was too late for her to ask what had happened; his eyes had already widened.

“You can’t let yourself be angry,” he said, and Mary breathed out, forced her hands to loosen.

“I know,” she replied, but her voice was still tight, and to keep the simmer from igniting again she turned away to Dean and Sam, her hand passing over their heads. “I just don’t understand.”

There was a pause and then Castiel began, “There are a great many things at stake here—”

“I don’t care!” Mary snapped without looking up, and her throat was tight, her eyes wet. None of it was real, she knew, but she was nothing more than a soul now and everything she felt was given some kind of form by her mind. “They’re my _children_. Why is this happening to my _children_?”

There was another pause. Mary sat beside Sam, leaned down to kiss his forehead, to rest her hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Because of who they are,” Castiel said, and the heaviness in his tone was pure, sad resignation. Mary looked up to find the angel was watching the boys, his earthly eyes red as if he would have cried if he could, his mouth twisted with a thousand emotions she couldn’t quite define—regret and fear and sorrow and … was that love?  “John Winchester … John Winchester is from a bloodline of vessels.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Mary told him, and her voice was thick. Castiel looked at her, and something in his face made chills run down her back.

“You can see my true self,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. Mary nodded anyway. “But you can also see my physical body. This, my earthly form, once belonged to a man named Jimmy Novak.”

If it were possible for the blood to drain out of Mary’s face, it would have. “You _possessed_ someone?!”

Castiel sighed the sigh of someone who had expected the reaction, and yet was tired of having to explain himself. “It’s different to demonic possession. Angels require consent. And we keep our vessels in a state of sleep so they remain unharmed by our presence. Mostly. But Jimmy’s soul left me some time ago. I’m alone in here, now.”

With a jerk Mary tore her gaze away from Castiel’s— _Jimmy Novak’s_ —face, looking down at her sleeping boys instead. They were so peaceful. Even Dean, with the weight of all the responsibilities he shouldn’t have had. Castiel kept talking.

“But not every human can contain us, and not every vessel’s bloodline can hold every angel. Jimmy could have held several of my brothers other than I. The Winchesters …” He stopped to take a breath, even though he didn’t need one, and blew it out as if the weight of it was crushing. “The Winchesters are a bloodline suitable to either Michael … or Lucifer.” 

Mary said nothing. She stared down at her sons, stroking their hair over and over again, her mouth tightly pressed and eyes red with tears that weren’t real. If she’d been alive she would have felt as if the pain in her heart must have been fatal. There was a long moment in which Castiel waited for an answer, and when he didn’t get one, he continued, “Michael and Lucifer—”

“Stop.” Her voice cracked and Mary stopped, blinked, let the non-existence tears fall. “I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t want to hear about how special my sons are or how gifted or what their _destinies_ are. I just want your word that you’ll do everything you can to protect them from becoming tools. Even tools of Heaven.”

“I promise,” Castiel said quietly, and somehow this unlocked the fierce lump in Mary’s throat. She looked up at him and the angel seemed diminished, his shoulders slumped, his gaze on her sons. Like a puppy. A kicked puppy still determined to follow his master wherever he went.

Why did Mary get the feeling her sons were Castiel’s masters?

“How can you promise that so easily?” she whispered, and Castiel dragged his gaze away from Dean and Sam as if it had been held there with the force of gravity.

“Because they don’t deserve what’s coming,” he said, and the tiredness in his voice made it seem so gravelly that it caught on his own words. “Because I’ve failed them before. Because I owe them, and I _don’t_ owe my brothers.”

His eyes, so blue, felt like sinkholes she could drown in. Mary swallowed hard, swallowed again, and in the end said nothing, because she had nothing to say. Castiel had promised to go against _Heaven_ for the sake of her sons. Without hesitation.

She didn’t want to know why. She didn’t want to know how he could possibly owe them when they were only children. She just wanted to know they would be as safe as possible, and in his faces, she could see the grim determination of someone she could trust to at least try. Even if it should cost him his life.

‘Thank you’ seemed so inadequate. Mary looked down and said it anyway.

“Don’t thank me,” was Castiel’s chilling answer. Mary shivered, and then again when his voice sounded close over his shoulder. “I’ve found a place for you. Somewhere my brothers won’t be able to find you and use you for their own purposes. But we should go, now. You’ve already been on this Earth for too long.” 

Mary had no voice, so she just nodded. She leaned down and kissed each of her sons’ foreheads, and the last thing she saw before Castiel gathered her up in his angelic arms was Sam’s eyes blinking sleepily open.

 

For the moment in which Sammy lived in-between waking and sleeping, he thought he felt someone’s lips pressed to his forehead. Hope leapt in his small chest, and even though he still felt sleepy, he forced his eyes open, half-expecting to see Dean above him, caught in an act of affection, and half-hoping it would be Daddy instead.

There was no one there.

Sammy’s brow crinkled in confusion. He _had_ felt someone kiss his forehead. He had! It had felt nice, which is how he knew it had been real, because things like that didn’t happen very often. Dean pretended he didn’t like to and Daddy … Daddy tried. He tried, but he forgot a lot too.

Pouting, the boy pushed himself upright and was taken surprise by a yawn which he stifled as quickly as he could. He held his palm over his mouth, holding his breath and watching Dean to make sure the older boy wasn’t going to stir. When Dean didn’t, Sammy very carefully slid off the sofa, dragging Mr Moose with him.

The last few days had been very fun. The fact that Sammy could put that smile on Dean’s face had filled the boy with a fierce glow of satisfaction, and the way the ice-cream man kept finding things for Dean to do made Sammy want to beam with pride at how grownup Dean was being treated. Maybe soon Dean would be able to help Daddy enough that they could get a real room with real beds and a real kitchen.

In fact, the whole thing had made Sammy determined to find something _he_ could do. After all, Dean had been helping Daddy ever since before Sammy could remember, which meant Dean couldn’t have been much older than Sammy was now when he started. So why couldn’t Sammy do the same? He just needed to figure out _what_. And he needed to do it without Dean knowing. It was meant to be a surprise, after all.

When Daddy needed to figure out things like this, he always used the newspaper. Very carefully Sammy moved the kitchen chair so it wouldn’t drag on the floor and climbed up on it to find the paper Daddy had been looking at right before he’d left. The boy opened it up, very slowly so the pages didn’t rustle and wake up Dean; and then with great concentration he began reading, one finger tracing the line under words he was only just beginning to decipher.

__

“Anything?” Bill’s voice through the radio was terse and staticky, and came out louder in the night air than John’s nerves felt was strictly necessary. He turned the volume down a little more, pausing in the shadows behind the public toilets on the edge  of the park in which he was searching for the werewolf.

“Nothing. Either it’s older than we were assuming or whoever stole the silver really is just a wannabe,” he said, and couldn’t keep the weariness out of his voice. This hunt had taken too long already. Not longer than any other hunt, and in fact not nearly as long as some given they were only on the second night of the full-moon period, but _too long_ for John on this particular occasion. Ever since his dream about Mary it had felt as if something had ignited inside of him, something that begged him to return to his sons and set things right the way Mary said he should.

“No,” Bill said after a moment, and there was an odd tone in his voice. “It wasn’t just a wannabe. Not the kind who was just seeing things, at any rate.” John felt a chill and didn’t get a chance to ask, because Bill was already continuing. “I found her. Corner of Westfield and Barlow.”

John did some quick mental calculations. “I’ll be there in five.”

It took four before he pulled up in the lot next to the other park Bill had been canvassing. With the area they’d narrowed down, and the victims, these two parks were the most likely spot for the wolf’s hunting grounds, if not its actual den. The other hunter wasn’t in sight, but once out of the car and on the turf, his silver-loaded rifle in hand, John let out a whistle.

The response came only a moment later from somewhere further into the trees, and John jogged toward it, his gun cocked and ready. He cased the area as he went, and it was only as he rounded a tree and recognized Bill’s face and hair in the beam of their flashlights that he actually lowered the gun. He didn’t _relax_. Too much adrenaline, too much exhaustion, too much of everything to relax.

Bill nodded down at the lump at his feet, and it was only as John got closer that he was able to see details; the blood that looked black in the darkness, the splay of limbs, the too-pale skin, the torn clothes and flesh.

“Heart’s missing?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yep,” Bill said grimly. “ _Not_ just a wannabe. We’ve only got one night left, John.”

John cast the beam onto the girl’s all-too-young face, her grey eyes wide and terrified, her arms flung up as if to protect herself. He scanned the ground slowly, knowing Bill would have already done a search for the gun, but the other man waited patiently until John concluded the same thing he had already discovered: the weapon was missing. “We’d better start finding out who she is and who she knows, then. This isn’t some random passerby who saw something they shouldn’t.” 

“No,” Bill agreed. “This was personal.”

 

“‘This was _personal_ ’,” Gabriel mimicked from where he sat in the tree overhead, the lollipop in his hand almost completely unsucked. “Well, it is _now_ , buckos. Not just for _you_.” He jabbed a finger at John and looked down it as if it was the barrel of a gun, then shifted it sideways until it was pointed at Bill. “But don’t think you’re getting off lightly either. Your freaking _kids_ are waiting for you at home and you’re out here teaching ’em how to grow up soldiers. Bastards.”

He snorted something that was a cross between a laugh and a snarl, and stuck his lollipop in his mouth, pushing himself up to stand on the branch as if it wasn’t only two inches wide.

“Enjoy this last hunt, boys,” he said mockingly past the candy in his mouth. “I’m gonna come up with something _real_ good for _you_.”

Delivering Mary wasn’t easy. It wasn’t _impossible_ given Castiel’s new level of power, but it wasn’t _easy_ because there was no one in Heaven to whom he could afford to reveal himself. Even the ones he would have trusted. The thought of showing himself to Rachel or—worse—Balthazar put a tightness in Casteil’s Grace and wings that made it difficult to fly, no matter how they might have wanted to help. It would have taken too long to explain.

He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to.

Either way, a full day had passed before Castiel was able to return to Earth. Mary’s new safehouse was less house and only relatively safe, being directly under the Host’s nose as it was, but they had no reason to look there. Individual heavens were rarely cased unless they belonged to someone important for one reason or another.

The very first place the angel went was back to where Dean and Sam were waiting for their father. The pair of them weren’t at the motel, but they were at the park nearby, and whatever Castiel had been hoping for when he saw them he didn’t get it. The tightness in his Grace remained, and now that he wasn’t occupied with sneaking into Heaven using the ‘passages’, for lack of a better word, he had once frequently used while at war with Raphael, the memory he had been trying to keep at bay with action came forward.

_“What in hell was that all about?”_

_Ellen’s voice made Castiel turn, but for a moment all the angel could do was stare blankly at the woman, still trying to overcome his vessel’s adrenal response and the bereft feeling Gabriel’s abrupt departure had left him. Bereft and sick, almost, the sort of sick which told him there was something he was overlooking,_ had been _overlooking all along, which would help explain his brother’s actions further._

_“My apologies,” he said tiredly. “My brother is—was—he doesn’t approve of the family business.”_

_“He scared my daughter,” Ellen said, and the words were possessive and threatening all at once; she clutched the little girl closer to her legs. Jo’s head was buried in her thigh, but the girl peered out between her bangs at Castiel nonetheless, her eyes wet and red. Every now and then, she sniffed._

_Castiel hesitated, searching for a response, keenly aware of the silent family across the way who were pretending not to overhear but couldn’t help but listen to everything. “He’s been angry for a long time,” Castiel finally settled on. “He—left—a while ago. I hadn’t seen him for years. Then we met again and he thought I’d left too for similar reasons.”_

_“Did you?”_

_“In a way,” Castiel said vaguely, inwardly grimacing at how direct she was, how quickly she cut to the point, and how he wished her eyes weren’t so intense in their focus. When she finally took her gaze off him the angel found himself relieved. That had been one too many piercing stares in such a short time, even if one of them was human. The woman smoothed Jo’s hair tenderly._

_“I don’t mean for her to grow up doin’ the same things Bill and I have done,” she said._

_“You don’t have to explain,” Castiel said quickly, trying to ignore the pang in his chest that wasn’t quite just an earthly reaction. She looked up at him._

_“Do you agree with him?” Castiel wanted to reassure her, but he hesitated just a beat too long before speaking, and even as he opened his mouth to answer Ellen had already smiled—a twisted sort of smile. “That’s what I figured. Thank you,” she said, and the surprise must have shown on his face, because a moment later she added, “for talkin’ him down.”_

_“It’s nothing to thank me for,” Castiel said, shifting awkwardly inside his vessel, and Ellen’s mouth quirked a little._

_“Well, you sure as hell deflect like some hunters I know.” Her gaze shifted just slightly over his shoulder, toward the door, and her brow wrinkled a little as she chewed her lip. “That brother of yours … he wouldn’t happen to have kids, would he?”_

Somehow those words had hit Castiel like a blow. He’d stammered out that he didn’t know, it had been that long, but the way Ellen’s gaze had snapped back to him had made it clear his consternation hadn’t been missed. She’d nodded sharply and told him his bourbon was still waiting if he wanted it, but at that point Castiel had just needed to leave—to escape the vestige of Gabriel’s Grace still in the room.

_“That brother of yours … he wouldn’t happen to have kids, would he?”_

It would, Castiel thought, explain everything if it was true. Gabriel had obviously taken up with hunters in the past—and he certainly enjoyed sex. _Had_ he had children? Had he watched them grow up as hunters, live and die and suffer as hunters did? Was that why he had treated Dean and Sam so tenderly despite them being Michael and Lucifer’s vessels, despite his rage at their father?

The other alternative, Castiel thought, was that the stories about Loki’s children were true. Castiel had never paid enough attention to pagan gods at the time to be able to say whether Loki’s children pre- or post-dated Gabriel’s leaving Heaven, but they were the most obvious answer. The only thing was that Castiel wasn’t entirely certain how they related to _hunting_.

“Toss it, Dean!” Sam crowed, racing across the lawn with his hands upraised. “Toss it, toss it!”

“And Winchester winds up at the pitch …” Dean hollered like a baseball announcer, drawing his arm back and lobbing the ball in a light arc through the air. An easy catch which Sam didn’t miss.

Watching them made the tight feeling worse, Castiel found. Watching them, and remembering how little sense it made that Gabriel should give them anything for Christmas, and how furious his brother had been when he found out what Castiel planned.

Was he right? the angel wondered, and even though Father hadn’t answered in a long time he still directed the question to Him. _Is he right?_

Was Castiel propagating the loss of innocence for a select few in favor of the many, just by doing the work he was doing?

He didn’t know. And as he watched the Winchester boys tossing the grungy, torn-up tennis ball to one another, pretending it was the baseball they didn’t have and couldn’t afford, the angel found himself suddenly less sure of his choice than he had been.


	16. On a stormy sea of moving emotion

It was just getting light on the horizon as John pulled up to the motel, the Impala’s engine purring softly. He pulled into a parking spot and keyed it off, and for a moment just sat there, watching the tinge of green past the silhouettes of the buildings. His body ached; he’d have to bind his ribs to make sure they’d stay in place. And he’d twisted his knee when the wolf had rolled him.

He hadn’t been up to scratch. He’d known it, Bill had known it, the werewolf had known it. It was just lucky he’d had the wits to call someone else in, or his sons would be alone right now.

His sons. John’s chest clenched with a mixture of guilt and shame and love. When he thought back on it now, he still remembered his reasoning for wanting to raise Dean and Sam the way he had, but somehow it seemed more senseless than he’d thought. Mary had been killed by something, a demon, a strong one; but that didn’t mean he had to uproot his kids every time he felt the itch. How much damage could he have done that way?

_A lot. A lot of damage._

John took a deep breath and to his surprise he found his eyes were wet. He wiped them, checked the mirror to make sure they weren’t showing on his face—they weren’t; the redness and the bags could be blamed on exhaustion—and then climbed out of the car, gathering his gear.

The man hesitated for just a moment before knocking on the door, the special knock he’d taught Dean so Dean would know it was really him and not something else. There was a shuffle and a thump from inside, and then a cautious knock in return. John’s chest clenched. Making double-sure. It seemed so paranoid now.

He knocked again and then heard the rattle of the safety-lock being drawn back, and a moment later Dean was looking up at him in relief. The way he swayed just a bit forward and then held himself back, tightly controlled, told John how much his eldest wanted to throw himself into his arms and didn’t dare. Instead he stood upright, half at attention.

_A lot of damage_ , John thought, and swallowed through the lump in his throat even as he smiled.

“Hey there, sport. Your old man allowed in?”

“Let me think about it for a minute,” Dean said, then grinned and moved back, swinging the door open. John moved inside carefully, carrying his duffel and conscious of the aching pain in his knee. Sammy was sitting on the couch, looking over the back of it, and he lit up when John came into view.

“Hi, Dad! Didja get the rabid dog?”

“Sure did, Sammy,” John assured the boy with a quick grin that belied his aching body. Dean, smart kid, observant kid, didn’t miss it, and his smile faded. He closed and deadbolted the door and then hurried for the kitchen, already in nurse-mode as John made for the kitchen table. Sammy, oblivious, bounced off the couch, already chattering nineteen to a dozen about how much he liked this town.

“—and we found a ball and the ice-cream man has been giving Dean jobs and—”

“Jobs, huh?” John said, glancing up as Dean hurried back with a towel and a glass of water.

“Just little things,” said the boy, and shot an embarrassed ‘ _shut up!_ ’ look at Sammy. “Putting posters up. Stuff like that.”

“That’s good, Dean,” John told him sincerely, ignoring the second clench at the fact that Dean apparently thought John might not care. And why shouldn’t he? John had walked out on the kid on his freaking _birthday_. He’d walked out and that faint bit of approval still made Dean’s cheeks redden a little, made him look down to cover the pleasure on his face as he took an instant meal over to the microwave. “A man should have a job. And speakin’ of which …”

He hesitated. He’d stopped on the way home to think, to try and decide what to get Dean, and had only been able to think of weapons or tools that would serve him well. He’d decided on a set of his old lockpicks.

It wasn’t enough. “I’m getting one,” he said finally, without fanfare. Dean whirled around, his eyes wide. “In Thedford. I’ve got some friends in the area. We’ll be headed out there and I’ll find us a place to stay, and then—I’ll look for a job. Something more permanent than … than what I’ve got now.”

“You mean we’ll go someplace and stay there? For _good_?” Sammy asked with something so near to awe that it made John struggle to keep the burn out of his eyes. To cover for it he reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair.

“That’s it, squirt. Figure I’m getting too old for you both to be dragging me around like this.”

Sammy squirmed under his hand, pulled back, and laughed with delight, throwing himself at his father. John’s ribs sparked pain at the sudden weight, and he grunted, then chuckled himself as he drew Sammy onto his lap. (The alternative was to cry.) Then he looked up at Dean, and the potential tears dried up in the forefront of sudden dread. “That sound good to you, Dean?” 

Judging by the dampness in Dean’s eyes, and the way he swallowed compulsively and yet could only nod his response, it sounded very good. To his surprise John felt a smile spread across his face, the kind he didn’t think he’d be able to smile again after Mary’s death. When he held out his arm, Dean, for once, didn’t hesitate to run into his father’s embrace.

__

Castiel stood beside the phone booth for a long time before finally entering it. Despite the ‘no standing’ sign, he loitered on the edge of the curb and watched the traffic go by, and missed the sense of confident fulfillment he’d entertained for only a couple of short weeks. It was incredible, how easily one’s emotions could shift.

But, in the end, he picked up the phone and dialed Bobby’s number. The fact of the matter was that Castiel didn’t have anything else. He’d walked out on his brother, and he wasn’t entirely sure if Gabriel would take him back even if he wanted to go. If Castiel intended to do anything to stop the apocalypse—again—then his fate would be entwined with that of the hunting community; it was inevitable.

And he did want to stop the apocalypse. Maybe he couldn’t be trusted to do it himself, but he could set things in motion, figure out the best ways to help Dean and Sam endure, while avoiding any situations in which he would risk the future because of his own faulty judgment.

In any case, he felt the need for guidance. Sending on petty ghosts wasn’t doing much. And Bobby, at least, could give him something to do while he felt incapable—just until he worked things out again.

“Singer Salvage.”

“It’s Castiel,” he said, and as before, there was a pause before Bobby replied. A startled one, almost, like he hadn’t expected to ever hear from Castiel again; a wary one, because of what Castiel knew Bobby suspected.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Are there any hunts which need doing?” asked the angel.

“How should I know?” Bobby snapped, and sounded so much like his old self that Castiel couldn’t help but smile briefly with relief. “Do your own damned research. I ain’t your mother.”

Of course. Castiel had forgotten. Bobby wasn’t the central call-point for hunters. Not yet. Castiel would have to do his own research, apparently, and even though the thought didn’t fill him with enthusiasm it was at least something to do.

He was about to apologize and hang up, feeling steadier just for having spoken to the man, when he had to ruin it by blurting out, “Has Gabriel visited you again?”

Another pause, and finally Bobby said, “No. Should I be expectin’ him?”

Castiel considered. Gabriel knew about the Roadhouse. He also, apparently, knew of some way to track Castiel despite his wards, some way which didn’t include eavesdropping on Bobby’s soul. “No more than before,” he settled on saying. “But it might be … prudent … if you left me a message at the Roadhouse if he does.”

“Got it.” Bobby sounded nettled. Castiel didn’t like that sound at all.

“Sorry for bothering you.” He moved the phone away from his ear and only just heard Bobby’s voice on the other end.

“Wait a sec. I might’ve heard of a few hunts in the area. Well, a few oddities, at any rate. You’ll have to decide for yourself if they’re true or not. Got a pen?”

“Tell me,” Castiel said, even though he didn’t have a pen. He didn’t need one.

“It’s over in Missouri. Columbia. People being seen in two places at once. One person, at least. Some guy just got off an assault charge because he’d apparently been seen by multiple witnesses clear on the other side of the city. Be in the newspaper for today. Could be a shapeshifter, so … go check it out.”

A shapeshifter. Castiel’s stomach rose up, flipped over, and settled back down again less gracefully than it had already been resting. The last time he’d seen a shapeshifter had been because—

Because he and Crowley had been hunting and murdering them to draw out the Alphas. To draw out Eve.

“Alright,” he agreed, and his voice was a tad unsteady. “Thank you, Bobby.”

“Don’t get killed, boy,” was all the hunter said before hanging up. Taking a deep, unnecessary breath, Castiel did the same, more gently than Bobby had. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking, and then, before he could stop to think too much, was gone in a rustle of feathers. 

 

At Singer Salvage, Bobby turned from the phone to scowl at Rufus. “What’s in your head, Rufus? I thought you wanted that hunt?”

The other hunter was leaning on the kitchen table, still with a glass in his hand, but there was a certain tension in his wiry frame which said he wasn’t nearly as relaxed as he appeared. “Three weeks, Bobby,” he said, lifting his glass to take a mouthful. “You’re not curious to see his progress?”

“What _progress_?” Bobby demanded. “He ain’t some rookie hunter we’ve been trainin’.”

“He don’t have to be,” Rufus countered. “You know what you suspect. I know what you suspect. That … man and his brother may not be human, and if they’re not, who knows what the hell they’re planning to do using hunters as a cover? I ain’t gonna take that risk.”

“So you send him out on a _hunt_?” Bobby asked incredulously.

“How d’you know he’s actually done any hunts since you last saw him, Bobby?” Rufus asked, and there was an edge to his tone. His weathered face was hard. “I dropped by that last little town you sent him to, and right after he was s’posed to have done that salt and burn there was a rash of petty grievances around homesteads. The kind a poltergeist would cause. When I went to check out the bones, sure, there was a fire there, but that don’t mean Castiel lit it. I’m just putting him on my own turf—someplace I can watch him and see if he’s what he claims to be. And if he ain’t? Then I can take care of it.”

Staring at Rufus, Bobby felt his stomach tighten and then loosen with dread. He knew the dark-skinned hunter too well not to know he was completely serious. The thing was that Castiel had never done anything wrong. In fact, the man—if he was a man—had been downright helpful. As uneasy as it made Bobby feel to think he might not be human, a lot of that was because of his brother more than Castiel himself.

“He ain’t a bad guy, Rufus,” he said finally, and the other hunter looked at him with a stony sort of determination.

“If he’s not human, Bobby, then he ain’t a guy,” he said. “He’s just a target. And sooner or later someone’s gonna suffer for him. It’s what supernatural things do.”

Bobby exhaled slowly, tried to let the adrenaline run through him, and wound up throwing up his hands and turning away. “Fine, whatever. But you’d better finish  that drink, ’cos I don’t give out goddamned doggy-bags.”

Rufus laughed behind him, an amused but dark sort of laugh, and a moment later Bobby heard the clunk of an empty glass on the table, the scrape of fabric as Rufus picked up his bag.

“Seeya ’round, Bobby.” 

The hunter walked out, the door slammed, and a minute later Bobby watched as his truck pulled out of the salvage yard. And despite whatever uneasiness he’d been feeling about Castiel, about Gabriel, about this whole damned situation, Bobby found himself hoping Castiel didn’t give Rufus reason to hunt him.

 

It took Bill a couple more days to get home than he was planning. Not ’cos of any hunt, but because his suit needed a good scrub and dry-cleaning before the blood set in, and because Bill’s car had needed a check-up after having been driven into the werewolf, and because the man had stopped to find a couple of gifts for his girls.

Ellen wasn’t much of a flowers-and-chocolates lady but Bill sure as hell knew her taste in lingerie. Probably she’d leave it in her drawer for the next year to punish him for the hint, he thought ruefully, but then she’d pull it out all of a sudden just when he’d forgotten he’d bought it for her.

As for Jo, well, she wasn’t much for dolls even as young as she was, but Bill figured a pogo ball would keep her happy, exercised and out from behind the bar.

He got in during the morning, early enough that the Roadhouse was ostensibly closed—to tourists and random passersby, anyway. Hunters knew they could just come in, rest their feet and be quiet, but God forbid if they woke Jo while she was having a nap. Most of the time they camped out until Ellen had officially opened unless Bill got in early enough to take on the shift. Occasionally a hunter came by who needed to rest up and was willing to work the bar for a few days, which took some pressure off, but mostly it was just the two of them, and that meant sometimes sacrifices had to be made as far as the Roadhouse’s opening hours went.

That was why Bill intended to talk to Ellen about John.

When he pulled up Bill found that someone was already waiting outside. Bill examined the stranger as he parked, grudgingly impressed at the Mustang and wondering how it was that hunters managed to get hold of vintage cars. The man wasn’t someone he’d ever seen before; slighter than he’d have expected a hunter to be, brown-haired, average looks. When Bill keyed off the engine and pushed open his door the man looked over and smirked, pushing himself upright from where he’d been leaning against the hood of his car.

“Waiting for a room?” he asked, and the man shrugged, a sort of rolling shrug which indicated there wasn’t much the stranger took seriously.

“Nah. If I wanted a room I’d have found a hot chick in town.” He grinned and Bill snorted, keeping an eye on the man in his mirrors as he moved around to the trunk to get his gear.

“Just a drink, then. Kind of early, isn’t it?”

“It’s five pee-em somewhere,” said the stranger innocently, and snapped his fingers, pointing at Bill. “Harvelle, right?”

“That’s me,” Bill agreed amiably, closing the trunk firmly and slinging his duffel over his shoulder. “And you? Haven’t seen you around before.”

“Eh.” The man shrugged. “Retired. My brother’s been dragging me back in.” He was still smiling, but there was a tightness in his face which indicated that this subject was more than touchy.

“Brothers can do that,” Bill said to get past that apparent sore-point, willing to let it drop. Dealing with John’s change of heart was more than enough for Bill for the month. He opened the back-door, leaned in to get his suit, and finally pulled back to close the door and lock the car properly. “Got a name?”

“Some people call me Gabe,” said the stranger, and Bill grinned at him.

“Yeah? And what about everyone else?”

Gabe laughed, the kind that made Bill think he maybe didn’t mean to but was surprised into it. “It’s a looong list.”

“Hit me,” Bill said as he moved to the door, juggling his luggage and his keys, and let himself in. “I need some ammunition.”

He paused on the threshold, looking back at the other hunter. The road behind him was dusty, long and bare, and Gabe looked ready to wait for however long until the Roadhouse opened. Stifling a sigh, Bill jerked his head to indicate the entrance. “Come on in. Can’t guarantee a meal or a room, but there’s a bar and a drink for you ’til my wife gets up, as long as you sign the waiver sayin’ it’s your hide she’s taking it out of for drinking so early.”

Something odd crossed Gabe’s face, something like amusement and surprise, like he hadn’t been expecting the offer. Then he smiled, and there was very little mirth in it. “We’ve already met. Don’t think I made a good impression, but she owes me a bourbon anyway.”

“Uh huh.” Troublemaker. Something to do with his brother, perhaps. Bill watched him for a moment, debating, but then finally shrugged. Fact of the matter was, he preferred people inside where he could keep an eye on them than outside where he couldn’t. You didn’t keep unknowns out of line-of-sight, unless they were in sight of someone else you trusted. “If she does, she’ll have made a note of it. C’mon.”

He dropped a wood-block by the door to keep it open and wandered into the coolness of the Roadhouse, already mentally unpacking his gear. The hunter left the main room long enough to put his suit up on a hanger and leave his duffel in the hallway where he wouldn’t disturb Ellen by going into their room, and then came back out into the bar, rolling up his sleeves. Good thing he’d taken that stop; he’d had time for a nap, a shower, enough to keep him going until Ellen got up.

Gabe was just wandering in as he came out, glancing around a bit in the way of a man who knew the place but wasn’t entirely familiar with it, and yet confident enough not to be worried by the unfamiliarity.

“Bourbon, huh?” Bill asked, moving behind the bar and finding Ellen’s list of tabs. Sure enough, there were two bourbons listed a few days ago for a ‘Gabriel’ and a ‘Castiel’, paid for by the former, which neither of them had actually drunk.

Huh. Interesting naming theme their parents had on there.

“That’s the one,” Gabriel said, taking a seat and leaning back against the counter, watching Bill thoughtfully. Something about his gaze made Bill’s back prickle, but the hunter met it squarely as he pulled out a glass and set it on the bar-top.

“What’d you mean by it when you said you didn’t make a good impression?” he asked, because while he may not prod about the man’s personal business, he’d be damned if he’d let something like that slide by without asking for details when it had to do with his own wife.

“May’ve lost my temper,” Gabriel admitted, drumming his fingers on the counter. He smirked and there was nothing happy about it. “Brothers can do that.”

He looked, Bill noted as he poured, like a man with questions to ask and either wasn’t quite sure how to ask them or didn’t intend to ask because he didn’t think he’d get truthful answers. “Is there something you needed around here?” he asked as he pushed the glass over. “Information? Looking for someone? Your brother maybe?”

Gabriel eyed the bourbon for a moment, then shook his head. “Nope. Cassy’s not exactly subtle and hard to find.” He picked it up, took a mouthful, and Bill waited. This was a familiar song-and-dance. He knew it, and Gabriel obviously knew it, and even though there was something about the man that put Bill a little on edge, it was to be expected of a strange hunter coming from out of nowhere. Sure enough, when Gabriel put down the drink, there was a certain light of curiosity and intention in his eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to know John Winchester, would you?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Bill agreed, crossing his arms on the counter. “Good man. Good hunter.”

“Heard he had a couple of kids,” Gabriel said, a little too pointedly, and Bill nodded, chewing his lip.

“Yeah. He does. Two boys. Of one ’em’s only a couple of years older than my girl, Jo.” He couldn’t keep the contemplativeness out of his tone, couldn’t help the way his mind turned in the direction of John’s surprising and sudden decision to settle. Not that it was a _bad_ thing, not at all; it was just that Bill couldn’t see where the motivation came from. John Winchester was not a man prone to changing his tactics when he felt they worked. So what had made him think they weren’t?

“It’s a hard life, hunting,” he murmured without meaning to, and without much surprise found himself looking toward the staff-entrance which led to their family rooms in the back. “Hardest on the kids. Sometimes I think those of us who choose not to have any are the wiser ones.”

But then he thinks about how much he owes to his girls, the direction he was headed before he’d met Ellen, the fact that he had something to live for, to keep him rooted, more than most hunters. Foolish or not, Bill had something to hunt for other than revenge on supernatural nasties. If he could make this world a better place for his daughter to grow up, how could he not? And whenever he stepped too close to the edge, Ellen was there to pull him back, remind him not to fall into the same trap every other hunter who’d had a partner and lost them did.

That was the good thing about the Roadhouse. It gave him something to return to, and the presence of so many hunters so constantly in and out meant that not many creatures dared to attack it.

Bill shook himself mentally and turned to Gabe with a wry grin. “But hey. You only live once, and at least if I go I’ll go knowing I’ve left something worthwhile behind. My little girl,” his voice was filled with affection, “she’s gonna change the world one day. Maybe as a cop, maybe as a hunter. But she’ll do it the right way. The smart way.”

To Bill’s slight consternation he found Gabe staring at him, his glass half-raised to his mouth and his face entirely blank. Again the hunter felt that prickle, and he hid it beneath a smile, asking, “How ’bout you? You got kids?”

For a long moment Gabe didn’t answer. Then, finally, he said, “No. Just a whole lotta little brothers.”

He downed the rest of the glass with an ease that had Bill grudgingly impressed, then let it drop back on the counter and rose in the same motion. This time his smile was brittle and strangely … not disappointed, exactly. But unbalanced. As if something had happened which he hadn’t expected. “Thanks for the drink, but I’ve really gotta fly. Busy, busy.”

“Sure,” Bill said, but Gabriel had already spun on his heel and was striding for the exit, leaving Bill wondering just which part of the conversation had prodded Gabriel’s obvious brother issues so badly.


	17. Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean

The hotel-room door burst open like a herd of elephants had just crashed into it. In reality it was just a four-and-a-half year-old clutching a moose-plush and heaving a bag almost as big as he was over the threshold with surprising strength.

“I wanna bed by the window!” he cried, dropping the bag just inside the door and rushing in and out of the rooms before finally throwing himself down onto the couch and pressing his face into the pillows, taking a deep breath. It smelled so _nice_. Like flowers! He hadn’t known rooms could smell so nice!

There was a scrape and a thump from the door. Sammy winced.

“Sam!” Dean hollered from the door, sounding mad, and Sammy peered over the top of the couch to find his brother had been lugging a duffel into the room and kind of … tripped over the bag Sam had left. The little boy pulled his head back down again quickly, before Dean’s glare could find him while he tried to untangle himself.

“Oops.”

“C’mere, Dean-o,” Daddy said with a laugh, and Sam couldn’t help but grin secretly to himself, the warmth in his chest swelling, at the sounds of their father helping the elder brother to his feet. Daddy hadn’t been so serious lately. Sometimes he still seemed really sad, which Sammy knew was ’cos of Mom, but he had actually been laughing and smiling in the last few days since they’d left the town with the rabid dog. He’d even paid for a hotel room instead of a motel room in Thedford.

“Sammy, come get your bag,” Daddy called, and Sam slid off the couch, clutching his moose to his chest and throwing a very, very apologetic look toward Dean.

“Sorry Dean,” he said meekly, and the irritation still on Dean’s face dissolved just a moment before Dean rolled his eyes. Sam resisted the urge to grin.

“Whatever. Come on, there’s only one room for both of us. And you can’t have the window.”

“What!” Sammy’s smugness vanished into indignation, but Dean was already striding toward the second bedroom. Hurriedly Sam snatched up his bag and jogged after him. “Dean! Why not?”

“Because—because you made me trip over your bag,” Dean retorted. Sam scowled, but didn’t answer. It sounded a bit like he’d meant to say something else, but then hadn’t, and anyway, it was a stupid reason.

“De-eean,” he whined, but Daddy interrupted, and his voice was very firm, like it got when he was working.

“Don’t argue with your brother, Sam. Dean’s got the window.”

That completely and totally wasn’t fair at _all_. Sullenly Sam obeyed, dropping his bag by the other bed and with a clear pouting scowl all over his face, but then Dean pushed the window open and the breeze came through. It was a good breeze, warm and full of nice smells, and Sammy took a deep breath of it before grinning.

Thedford. They were in Thedford and they were gonna be here to _stay_. Maybe it’d even be home.

Sammy’d like it if it did.

__

The good thing about being an angel was that Castiel didn’t have to wait to begin research—even though ‘didn’t have to’ didn’t mean he started right away, either. By the time he got to Columbia it was already growing dark, and the angel reasoned to himself that the investigation would prove easier if he waited until daylight, when any potential witnesses were awake to be observed.

Instead Castiel wound up standing on the edge of a skyscraper, watching the stars through the light-pollution which obscured humanity’s view and wrestling with the same thoughts he’d been having for the past several days. When dawn began to lighten the sky, he vanished from the building and reappeared on the streets, walking through them until he found a newspaper from yesterday which someone had left on the table in a coffeeshop. Searching through it, he found the article pertaining to the possible hunt.

Lindsay Fuller had been arrested a few days ago for theft, assault and battery after a failed attempt to rob a convenience store. Fuller had escaped, but his face had been caught on camera and he’d been taken into custody at his home. The man hadn’t even tried to run and had loudly proclaimed his innocence. As it turned out Fuller, who had meant to be on a plane, had been seen by multiple witnesses arguing with the flight-staff in the airport after his plane had been cancelled. He’d had receipts, tickets, an airport novel, and in the end the police had had to let him go.

Where the suspect at the scene of the crime had gone, no one was quite able to say. It did sound a lot like a shapeshifter, Castiel admitted. Not one as malicious as others they’d come across; simple petty robbery was more the stake of someone trying to survive than someone who felt they had the right or reason for vengeance and cruelty.

The thought did nothing to settle the angel’s stomach, and in the end he’d had to divorce himself from his vessel just enough to escape the feeling. The ripple of guilt in his Grace wasn’t so easy to avoid.

For some moments the angel sat at the coffeeshop table, the newspaper folded neatly before him, and considered. The most logical course of action right now would be to take a look at the actual crime scene. It wasn’t necessary for him to be visible for that; he just hoped he wouldn’t have to talk to any of the officers or witnesses who might be guarding it.

A second later the booth was empty and he was, instead, on the street outside an all-night convenience store some blocks away. It still had police-tape around the entrances, people skirting them, stopping and watching, and a man—the manager—arguing with a hassled-looking officer. Castiel passed easily through all deterrents and into the building.

The area had been cleaned, such as it was, by the police investigators; what remained was the aftermath of the crime no one had yet been allowed to tidy. Castiel extended his Grace just enough to try and read the memories in the walls, recent enough for him to get some sense from them.

Violence. Fear. Fear from _both_ sides.

The angel moved through the doors to the manager, silently watching the man’s soul whirl and spin with anger and frustration and the determination not to let this incident rule him. One by one Castiel picked out the images, and the very instant he’d found the direction in which the shapeshifter had fled, Castiel moved down the footpath.

It wasn’t his senses so much as logic which told him where it would go. The shapeshifter needed to hide. Castiel followed several of the most likely paths, returning to the store each time he felt the trail had run cold, until he spotted a manhole along one of them. A twitch of his wings sent him underground into the sewers, where he paused for a moment to get his bearings.

Just as well he was a step aside from his earthly body, he realized. The smell would have been overpowering otherwise, the tunnel too dark to see. As it was, it was only a minute or two before he spotted the lumpy pile of what looked to be dirty clothes and was, in fact, a skin. When Castiel knelt down to turn it over, projecting his Grace just enough around him to keep the muck off his shoes, he found it was a spitting image of Lindsay Fuller.

At least, a spitting image if Lindsay Fuller had been an empty skin.

Castiel’s stomach turned over unpleasantly. It was most definitely a shapeshifter. The action wasn’t necessary, but the angel took a deep breath and let it out slowly anyway. This was, he reminded himself, what hunters pursued.

_It was also what you had them pursue for you,_ whispered the part of his mind responsible for all the doubts and fears he’d ever entertained since returning to Earth.

The angel shook his head, a sharp jerk to the side, and then rose. Find the shapeshifter, he told himself. That was his task right now. Find the shapeshifter and stop it from hurting anyone else, even if all it hurt was their reputations. Had he not had an alibi, Lindsay Fuller would most certainly have suffered in jail.

Setting his jaw, Castiel strode down the sewer corridor, heedless of the stench and the garbage swirling around his feet.

__

“Mmm.” The sound of Ellen’s hum was Bill’s only warning before his wife wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him on the cheek. Luckily it was enough of one, even though the deadliest weapon he had in his hand was an egg-slide. Even an egg-slide could be dangerous if used right. “Smells good. What’d you break?”

“Nothing,” Bill said honestly, but infusing his tone with affront. “You’d think I broke something every time I made you lunch.”

“D’you want the list of incidents as evidence?” Ellen asked, pulling away from him so he could turn to give her a kiss back.

“I plead the fifth,” he murmured. Ellen only laughed and moved to the cupboards to get some glasses and find the juicer. “I really didn’t break anything,” Bill insisted, turning back to the stove. “But I’ve got a … _proposal_ to make.”

He caught the amused look she shot him reflected in the stove’s stainless steel, the knife in her hand gleaming in the light. “If it’s anything like your first one, you’d damn well better hope you did some rehearsal beforehand.”

“Not anything _nearly_ so important,” Bill said with impressive dignity. “Which, by the way, I think is enough to excuse my nervousness during that one.” He relaxed his shoulders and shook his head, sobering. “We need more people working in the Roadhouse, Ellen.”

There was a pause before Ellen answered before she sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

Bill flipped the eggs in the pan, keeping an eye on her reflection, the little concentrated furrow in her brow, the way she leaned her whole body into the act of twisting orange-halves on the juicer. Putting her whole being into a task, even one so simple. Bill’s chest constricted with love and dread both. He didn’t know what he’d do if something happened to Ellen. Could he really blame John for being a mess?

_No. And especially not if you’re gonna help him set things right._

“I want to hire John Winchester,” he said without any of the lead-up he’d meant to use, and it was abrupt enough to make Ellen’s head snap up, the woman torn, for a moment, between her task and her surprise. Then she recovered and looked back to the juicer, tossing one empty orange-half into the trash and reaching for the next.

“Didn’t much figure Winchester for a bartender,” she said. “Let alone stayin’ in one place.”

“Neither did I,” Bill agreed with a shrug. “But he wants to settle down in Thedford, and there’s no better place than here. He’ll still be able to hunt, still be in the loop, and there’s enough hunters coming in and out of the Roadhouse that no supernatural creature’s gonna bother it. His sons will be safe here.”

The way Ellen looked up at him then, the comprehension in her eyes and the rueful twist of her mouth, told Bill that he’d been busted as to his motive for making the suggestion. The softness told him that she didn’t mind. “It’ll be good for Jo to have more company,” she mused. “Isn’t good for a little girl, to be around so many hard-ass adults and no kids all the time.” She shrugged even as Bill deflated with relief at the lack of a fight he wasn’t entirely sure he’d have to have. “Sure, why not. If he can do the work, no reason he can’t have the job. By the way, my lunch is burning.”

Bill cursed and spun around to the eggs, shifting the pan off the stove before he realized that nothing at all had started to burn. Finishing lunch’s preparations took just a little longer than usual thereafter, owing to the necessity of revenge.

__

Finding the shapeshifter’s home was a simple matter of patiently and methodically exploring each of the sewer’s tunnels. Simple, but time-consuming, and Castiel once again found himself glad of the fact that he had all his power. Having to find the ’shifter without that advantage would have, as Dean would say, sucked.

Castiel stood staring down at the pile of rags in the corner of the room and wished that this made it easier too. It didn’t. The room in which the shapeshifter was staying was dry on the floor, but low-ceilinged and stinking just by virtue of being part of a sewer. Rags or no rags, its only bed was hard concrete.

_You’re a hunter. So hunt,_ the angel reminded himself, and yet chose not to step into another plane to wait. Bad enough that he was having doubts; to strike from another dimension entirely seemed even more dishonorable.

It took some time. Long enough that Castiel grew tired of counting the seconds, the minutes; long enough that by the time the shuffle of movement resounded down the corridor, he was startled out of his own internal ponderings. Even though he was currently hidden in the darkness, Castiel froze. Then he realized the reaction was unnecessary and shook off the urge for such wariness.

The angel started moving through the shadows, letting his sword drop into his hand, and drew close enough to see the shape of the person. They were hunched, arms wrapped around themselves, head down and covered by a beanie; their clothes were so shapeless that Castiel couldn’t tell their sex just by looking at them. Likely it didn’t matter. A shapeshifter could be anything, and change on a whim.

Their soul, though … their soul was a storm, rolling with disgust and despair and hopelessness. There was anger there, but turned inward to themselves.

They looked up and caught Castiel’s gaze, and in their eyes he saw—

He saw a teenager enduring growing pains unlike that of others, saw the advent of an ability beyond their imagination; saw terror and the intense desire to find anything assuage it, from drugs to religion to a loved and trusted friend. A loved and trusted friend who reacted with as much disgust and fear as they had.

He saw them flee, falling fast and hard into homelessness and theft and despair.

He saw them wait for him, resigned and understanding and even _pleading_ for him to end it. Castiel swallowed and said roughly, “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

The shapeshifter shifted and said nothing, but Castiel saw their disbelief.

“It doesn’t,” he insisted, unsure exactly when he’d decided that he could not kill them and whether it had been before or during the turn of their soul under his eyes, but knowing he couldn’t. If all who made mistakes were condemned for them alone, the world would be an empty place, and all of a sudden it was very, very important that this poor being understand what Castiel had learned, had forgotten, was learning again. He stepped closer, insistent and intense and with an edge of desperateness of which not even he was aware.

“Not being human doesn’t remove your humanity,” he said. “If you _wish_ to be humane, if you _wish_ to make something of yourself other than what you believe you are, then _you have the power to choose it_. By your actions instead of by your being, if need be.”

Something shifted in their eyes, but he didn’t dare to stop and wait and see whether it was for the better or the worse; rather, he turned for the exit, barely managing to keep himself from flying away before he’d turned the first corner at least. His throat felt tight, his Grace vibrating with memories and guilt and—

_“If You don’t send me a sign then … then I’ll do what I must.”_

He reached the tunnel, ducked into the cover of it, spread his wings. He was an angel, and yet he fled from that poor inhuman soul as if they were God Himself passing judgment.

 

Rufus Turner sat with his feet up on his dashboard, chewing on a trail-bar, his rifle in his lap. It had been night for some time now and the area’s streetlights were medleys of flickers and solid glows; all the better for him. Supernatural beings chose the best places to hide, but they were the best places for hunting, too.

He’d seen Castiel in town already, while scouting the area near the original crime scene. The other _hunter_ , for lack of a more appropriate word, had been poring over a newspaper in a café. Then, later, he’d been casing the area on foot. He had to have found the shapeshifter’s den; from all Bobby had said, Castiel wasn’t stupid, even if the method he’d chosen was slower. Still, he was fit—from what Rufus had seen the ‘hunter’ hadn’t broken a sweat during his search.

There was a manhole down the street, one Rufus had seen the shapeshifter duck down barely an hour ago. He watched it now, keeping his peripheral vision open—just in case. This particular hole was the most convenient entrance to this particular section of sewers, but it wasn’t the only one.

Movement down the street made the lanky hunter sit up, drop the bar into the passenger seat and lay his second hand on the rifle. The shadows shrouded the figure too much to see at first, but soon they passed under an intermittent light. Rufus recognized Castiel, head down and shoulders hunched, his trenchcoat flapping as he strode quickly down the pavement; Rufus tracked the ‘hunter’s’ movement with his peripheral vision until Castiel had passed from view.

Only then did Rufus sink back into his chair without relaxing his grip on his weapon, his gaze returning to the manhole. The night stretched on as he watched. Eventually the manhole cover shifted, a head poked itself out, the shapeshifter hauling itself from the sewer. Rufus smiled grimly as it hunched in on itself and made its way up the street in the opposite direction than Castiel had gone.

“Sorry, Bobby,” he murmured, “but your boy’s shown his true colors.” He opened his door quietly as only a hunter could and stepped out onto the pavement.

__

Fondly John watched Sam run yelling around the park’s playground, the boy’s hands and voice raised with nothing but pure joy. For once he had given up his moose, or at least had once John had pointed out that Mr Moose might catch its feet on something. The toy was now in John’s lap, the man’s hand resting on it, after John had promised very seriously to take care of it.

He hadn’t been fair back then, John had to admit to himself. His anger had been borne of shock and fear, and guilt had made him give in. Now with weeks behind them in which the plush had been nothing but well-loved John could admit that he had been wrong.

Dean was sitting on one of the swings, kicking his feet enough to put some speed into his arc but little enough that John could tell the boy was still keeping a close on eye on his brother too. The observation made John’s chest clench—or maybe it simply hadn’t ever loosened, not since he’d dreamed of Mary.

_I’ll fix it,_ he told himself, and forced his hands to ease their grip on Mr Moose. He found himself looking blindly down at the plush, at its scuffed, worn hooves and the way the stuffing had all been shoved out of its neck where Sammy gripped it. _I’ll find a job and I’ll raise them better, and I’ll_ fix _it._

The sound of a phone ringing was so abrupt that it made him jump. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Dean’s head snapping around, saw the boy half-rise from his seat. John gave him a reassuring nod even as he rose, his gaze finding the phone booth on the corner of the park. He’d called the Roadhouse that morning, just after they got in and after scouting the area, and had given Bill all the public phone numbers nearest the places he knew they’d go. It was an often-used security tactic, one he had on this occasion hesitated against using purely due to the awareness now of how paranoid he’d been. Then he’d decided it would only be prudent until he’d figured things out.

John jogged to reach the phone before it rang out, snatching it up and turning with his back into the corner so he could still watch his kids. “Winchester.”

“John,” said Bill, “how’re you doing?”

The hunter exhaled, relaxing against the glass and letting his head thunk back. Off in the park, he saw Dean hop off the swings to kidnap Mr Moose from the seat, prompting Sammy to make a rescue attempt.

“This was the right thing to do,” he said. “You should see Sammy right now. And Dean.”

It wasn’t obvious, but John was noticing it now because he was looking—noticing that Dean had seem just a touch more relaxed than usual. Relieved, almost; wary, as if not quite sure these circumstances would last, but there was still a degree of anticipation there which John had never really noticed was missing.

“Well, I hope they’re ready to settle,” Bill said, “because if you’re fine with being a rookie again, Ellen and I’ve decided to offer you a job at the Roadhouse.”

John was a seasoned hunter, and as a seasoned hunter he was used to things being so difficult it was like trying to sneak up on a lion to pull a thorn from its paw. So this? This was a complete surprise. His eyes widened. “Bill—I’ve never done that kind of work before. Are you sure—”

“Wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t,” Bill interrupted, his tone easy. “We look at it this way, Bill. You’re hardworking and we can’t keep staff here who don’t know about the things out there. You’ll be added protection for the Roadhouse, and the Roadhouse will be protection for your boys. How ’bout it? We’ve got rooms in the back, so you wouldn’t have to spring for an apartment.”

For a moment John was almost ashamed to realize that he couldn’t speak through the lump in his throat. It was long enough that, after an expectant pause, Bill said: “John?”

“Still here,” John said, and managed to keep his voice from being _too_ husky. “When d’you need me in?”

“Tonight, I guess. No point in waiting. Come by around two or three this afternoon and we’ll get you fixed up before the shift.”

John looked through the glass of the phone’s booth to where Dean was now making Mr Moose growl and chase a squealing Sammy around the playground, and knew that his eyes were shining with the tears he wasn’t letting fall. “I’ll be there.”


	18. I set a course for winds of fortune

After the hunt for the shapeshifter Castiel didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t go to Bobby’s because Bobby would ask questions Castiel couldn’t answer. He couldn’t go to Gabriel because Gabriel would ask questions whose answers Castiel wasn’t willing to admit. He couldn’t go to Anna or Jimmy, because he’d _promised_ them, silently, that he would make the world a safer place for them and already he had failed. And he couldn’t go to the Winchesters, because after everything they had taught him he had been unable to follow through.

In the end there was only one possibility, which was why Castiel found himself stepping into the Roadhouse the afternoon after his hunt.

There was a marked difference between this time and the last; the Roadhouse was almost filled, not just with hunters but with tourists as well. The divide wasn’t precisely clean but it was obvious—the different groups clustered in their own corners, with their own kind, with the widest paths between tables separating them.

Castiel paused in the doorway to soak in the ripple between souls and cast an absent eye across the people. It was immediately apparent, from a metaphysical perspective, exactly where the hunters and the civilians sat. The hunters reacted to his entrance with suspicion and curiosity; the civilians simply reacted, his presence leaving hardly a trace on their consciousness.

The angel threaded his way between the tables toward the bar. This was where the greatest congregation of hunters were, and each of them looked at him—some out of the corners of their eye, others directly. Castiel ignored the general air of wariness around him, glancing about for Ellen.

He found her almost immediately. The woman was bustling back and forth with glasses and bottles, clearly struggling to cater to a room full of patrons. She caught his eye on a round past.

“Be right with you, Cas,” she said, and vanished down the end of the bar. Her words and acknowledgement diffused the tension in the air, and the angel sensed the hunters around him relaxing. Castiel was a stranger, but a known entity to the Roadhouse. That made him trustworthy enough to have a drink with.

“Is it always like this?” he asked someone nearest, a man who looked like some cross between being a trucker and a Marine.

“Not always,” said the man with a shrug and a flash of a companionable grin. “But enough. Happy hour don’t start for a while yet, though. Ellen keeps us in line.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed and he turned his back on the bar to survey the Roadhouse. It was still near enough to lunch-hour to explain the crowd, and from the whisper of souls many hunters had chosen this time to exchange news, hunts and information. The angel listened silently to it all, reading flashes of past kills and present trauma, and pulled his Grace in close to keep it from rippling.

“Here ya go.”

The thud of a glass behind him was so sudden that it almost made Castiel jump inside his vessel, but then he turned smoothly to find Ellen had already served him.

“What is it?” he asked, slightly nettled by the fact he’d become lost enough not to have sensed her approach.

“That bourbon your brother ordered  you last time,” Ellen said.

Castiel stopped and after a moment said, “Oh.” He gazed at it, his face impassive—or at least he thought it was impassive. It took a moment for him to realize Ellen was regarding him silently.

“Hold that thought,” she said, “and I’ll get back to ya.”

“There is no need—” Castiel began, but Ellen interrupted him again.

“Just hold it, Cas,” she ordered before hurrying away to tend to someone signaling her from down the bar. Her leaving was so quick that she didn’t see the way Castiel reared back with surprise and discomfort, or glance over his shoulder at the door. The action was instinctive, checking his exit with his earthly eyes because he couldn’t sense it through the medley of souls around him.

For several seconds the angel hovered on the edge of leaving, because surely this was a bad idea; then he wondered where he would go next and never left his stool. He gripped his glass, but never actually drank from it. Instead he tried to focus on the people around him, on their chatter instead of their souls.

He didn’t quite manage to pay attention to anything enough to tell just what he was experiencing; instead he lingered in a sort of between-place wherein he was aware of most things—the laughter, the talk, the quiet reminiscing—but couldn’t grasp the details.

When Ellen returned she found him virtually unmoved, his impassive gaze staring out over the Roadhouse’s interior. It was a hell of a stare—a thousand-yard stare. Easy to be unnerved by it, and judging by the uncomfortable glances being thrown their way, some of the tourists were succumbing.

“Hey.” She snapped her fingers in front of his face, and as if Castiel was being dragged out of a deep pit he turned his head to look at her. It gave her chills, that look; as if he was seeing into her and through her at once.

Ellen wasn’t a woman particularly given to ‘soft-heartedness’. You just didn’t _not_ develop some kind of tough exterior while living the life she had, and did, and likely still would. But there was a difference between being soft-hearted and being compassionate, and there was something _about_ Castiel which plucked the heartstrings.

He was hard to read, but there was something so desperate in his intensity that it was almost child-like. It was the most obvious when it came to things regarding his brother. Ellen had met them at virtually the same time, but she had met Castiel first, and it wasn’t until Gabriel had wandered into the Roadhouse that Castiel had gained that edge.

It was there now too.

Ordinarily Ellen might have given him a different drink, maybe a distraction the way a good bartender could and the way she often did for hunters who were just a little close to the line. Except that Castiel had stood up for Jo to his brother, and apparently the Roadhouse had just today become a refuge for strays even beyond what was assumed by its mere presence in the hunting community.

_What the hell_ , she thought.

“C’mere, Cas,” she said with a jerk of her head. Castiel hesitated, not exactly frowning but his eyes flickering with something that was probably confusion. “C’mon, around the bar. Bill’s gone and hired a guy but he ain’t here yet, and I’m busier than a mama bee in mating season.”

Aha; if Ellen wasn’t mistaken, that there was a glint of humor in the man’s eyes. She almost smiled, repressed it to maintain her stern image, and jerked her head again. “Get your butt over here.”

Gingerly Castiel rose, glancing around at the rest of the hunters as if looking for some kind of guidance, but they were all either occupied with their own conversations or too busy snickering into their cups to give it. Except for one—Barnaby, ex-Marine, now a ‘trucker’, who grinned broadly and said, “Keep your ass covered, dude, or you might get flayed.”

“I ain’t got all day,” Ellen said, slapping the countertop. “Lunch-hour only lasts ’til one-thirty latest. Don’t make me get the whip.”

That put a little extra briskness in Castiel’s step, and soon he was behind the counter, looking around uneasily and with a look remarkably like a lost puppy. Ellen hadn’t waited for him; she was already down the other end of the bar, taking an order. She moved back toward him, ripping off the paper, and shoved it at him.

“Take this out back to Bill,” she ordered. “There’s a coathanger out there; take off your coats, man, you oughta be drowning in sweat. Then when you come back in here I’ll put you to work watching the bar and takin’ orders, got it?”

Castiel took the page slowly, looking down at it as if not quite aware of what it was or why he had it. Then, he asked, sounding a little frazzled, “Why?”

“You got something better to do?” Ellen demanded, and Castiel’s expression flickered before he shook his head. The woman pointed at the door, picking up a full box of bottles she hadn’t had the chance to unpack yet. “Then get your ass to work.”

He scurried away through the door and Ellen couldn’t help but chuckle to herself as she turned for the bar.

“Five minutes and he’s already wearin’ her bootprint,” said Barnaby with a stage-whisper, and without turning to him Ellen retorted,

“Keep that up and he won’t be the only one.”

There was a smattering of laughter behind her, and Ellen smiled tightly as she unpacked the bottles onto the shelf with smooth, quick motions. She had no idea if Castiel wanted a job or not, but he’d had that look—of someone just introduced to something they weren’t ready for. Hunting might have run in their family, but that didn’t mean it was something Castiel could adapt to, and hell, didn’t the Roadhouse always need helpers? At least if Bill and Winchester went off on one of their own hunts Ellen would still have someone to lend a hand.

She just hoped Bill agreed. Turning Castiel out would be kind of like kicking a puppy.

__

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we—”

“ _NO_ , Sammy, we’re not damned there yet!” Dean hollered, turning around in the front passenger seat to glare at his brother. Sammy stopped bouncing where he was, hunching up quietly around his seatbelt and watching Dean warily until the older boy was satisfied that Sam had shut up and turned back around.

Then, “Are we there ye—?”

“Just around this corner, Sammy,” John interrupted, trying to keep the irritation out of his own voice. He managed it successfully, breathed a mental sigh of relief, and glanced to the side to see Dean’s jaw was clenched and his hands fisted on the sides of the chair. Looking back to the road, John reached out to ruffle his eldest’s son’s hair, grinning at the surprised yelp it got in response.

The road was dusty bitumen, the plains around it mostly flat except for the high grass and the occasional stumpy tree. The dip in the corner meant that none of them could see the Roadhouse until they rounded it. John was too busy looking for traffic at the crossroads to truly look, but he most definitely heard Sammy’s squeal and shout of delight.

“There it is!”

Ow. That had been right in his ear. John winced and said without turning, “Down in your seat, Sammy.”

He heard the plop as the boy obeyed, even under the chant of, “There it is, there it is, there it is!”

They should probably get there fast, John decided, or the Impala was going to explode under the force of Sam’s enthusiasm. A sidelong glance told John that even Dean’s eyes were lit on the Roadhouse, shining with excitement and with a smile tugging his lips which the boy didn’t dare let loose. With a grin to himself John changed gears and revved the engine, and they roared down the strip of highway to Sammy’s squeals of delight.

There were still a few cars in the parking lot; John pulled smoothly into one of the empty spaces nearest the entrance, glancing at the clock. Right on two-thirty.

He hadn’t even turned the engine off before both his boys had shot out the doors; Dean grabbed the back of Sam’s shirt before the younger boy could escape and run ahead into the Roadhouse before them. John breathed a slight sigh of relief and got out with a little more dignity, ruffling Sammy’s hair. “C’mon, squirt. Don’t want to make your old man look bad, do you?”

“Nope,” Sammy said would-be solemnly—if he hadn’t still been grinning and trying to hide it behind Mr Moose. “You need all the help you can get.”

Dean snorted and then stopped short, glancing upward at John in apology, but after a startled moment John just laughed and ruffled Sam’s hair harder. “I’ll remember that one, boy. Let’s go.”

He put his hand on Dean’s back, guiding his sons toward the door. This late in the afternoon, the heat hadn’t started easing off yet; walking into the Roadhouse was a relief, even without air-conditioning. John paused to let his eyes adjust to the relative dimness, automatically scanning the inside, and then mentally kicking himself when he glanced down and saw Dean doing the same.

John squeezed the boy’s should in silent apology, but when Dean looked up at him with the glow of vindication John knew it had been taken as approval instead, and the man’s smile was just a little wobbly. Sammy, at least, was unaware; the boy was gazing around with awe, though the way he clutched Mr Moose to his chest had an edge of apprehension. Of course it would. Sammy had rarely been allowed in a place like this, with this many people.

This many hunters. John’s gut flip-flopped. There was no way Sammy would be able to escape hearing things around here. John had known it after he’d hung up the phone with Bill, but after the initial chest-clenching panic he’d taken a breath and looked at it logically. This was, to all intents and purposes, the best place for Sammy and Dean right now. Here, John would have a steady and settled job in among like-minded people, people who knew the truth and from whom he wouldn’t have to hide. Where better for Sam to learn the truth?

With a gentle push he nudged his sons toward the bar, skirting the tables. There were one or two hunters he knew still present; he caught their eyes, nodded acknowledgement. One group of tourists was still left—about a half-dozen young roadtrippers, from the looks of things, a bit rowdy with the good spirits of a journey just begun.

“Hey there, John,” Ellen said with only the briefest glance up from where she was wiping down the bar.

“Ellen,” John greeted her with another nod, hiding the stab of uncertainty. Bill had said both he _and_ Ellen had made this choice, but for a moment John’s caution overtook his memory and he was certain it could not possibly be this easy.

Then Ellen shook out the rag into the bin with a patter of debris and looked up again, this time to Dean and Sam. “These your boys, huh?”

“Dean and Sam,” John said, resting one hand on Dean’s shoulder and the other on Sam’s head. He tried to ignore the way Dean had shuffled, ever so slightly, so that in the event of attack he was at the forefront and Sam was in-between his brother and his father. Sammy didn’t notice; he was too busy staring up at Ellen with wide eyes, Mr Moose pressed so tightly against his chest and cheek that the plush was nearly strangled. The boy’s fingers hovered near his mouth like he was about to suck his thumb—a habit broken except when Sam was most uneasy.

Ellen leaned over the counter and smiled at them. “Well, I hope you boys like company, ’cos I’ve got a girl about your age, Sammy, and if your daddy’s working here you’re gonna be seeing a lot of each other.”

The abrupt bloom of warmth in John’s chest was entirely unexpected and burned away all his discomfort. “Ellen,” he said, and wasn’t able to keep that warmth out of his voice, “thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Winchester,” Ellen said, turning her attention on him with a serious face and dark eyes nevertheless gleaming with amusement. “Bill’s the one gunnin’ for you, and besides, you’re not the only one we might be hiring. My husband didn’t stop to think that I’d still be holdin’ down the fort alone if the both of you had to go out on a job.”

Which made a perfect amount of sense and yet damped John’s lightheartedness just a tad. “You’ve hired someone else?”

Ellen nodded. “Might be. Lunch-hour was rush-hour today, and he had the look of someone in need of a distraction. Knows about as much about the gig as you, but he did well enough. Name’s Castiel. He’s just taking care of the dishes in the kitchen, with Bill and Jo; head on back and Bill will set y’up.”

“I’ll do that,” John agreed, and then hesitated, glancing down at his sons. Ellen saw the look and jerked her head toward the door.

“Take ’em with, go on. Introduce ’em to Jo, while you’re at it.”

‘Let’s see what problems we might have from the start,’ John translated her tone in his head, and with a huff and a nod John turned his boys toward the staff door. “See you later, Ellen.”

“Don’t make a mess in there, y’hear!” she called after them just as the phone rang, and despite himself John grinned a melancholy grin. It was something Mary would have said. As much as the thought made his chest twist, for a moment, it made the Roadhouse seem like home.

 

“This is going to end badly,” Gabriel said to Ellen as she answered the phone. He was sitting on the counter, invisible to her, to her patrons, even to his brother in the next room. There was no Grace in the Archangel’s voice, no resonance. There wasn’t any doubt in her soul for Gabriel to latch onto.

“What can I do for ya, Bobby?”

“Having them here,” Gabriel continued, watching the woman, “is like having a disguised nuclear _warhead_ in your backyard. Sooner or later, someone’s gonna come after ’em. Someone not me.”

Ellen turned sharply toward the staff entrance, her brow furrowed. “Yeah, I’ve seen him. Tan trenchcoat, suit, dark hair, blue eyes, thousand-yard stare.”

“Or Cassy,” Gabriel added. “Though he was here first.” He smiled tightly. “Betcha I know what that old wrecker’s gonna say, by the way. Cas really sucks at staying under cover.”

The woman’s frown deepened, the worry in his eyes increasing, and she stayed staring in the direction of the kitchen. “D’you know anything about his brother? Average everything, gold eyes, looks like a pred—” Singer apparently cut her off, because she inhaled sharply, exhaled slowly. “Yeah, that’s him. … Well, what do you _think_ they are?”

“Excuse me!” Gabriel squawked. “ _Average_ everything?” The complaint was just a little too late and a little too false. He hadn’t exactly been subtle lately himself, but that was another thing he blamed on Castiel. The little idiot had had too much fun tearing down barriers it had taken the Archangel _decades_ to build for him to remake them so quickly.

And now Castiel was here, by chance alone, in the same place as the Winchesters. If Gabriel wasn’t so sure that his Father was—no, the Old Man had made Himself pretty damn clear He didn’t want anything to do with anything. It was just a coincidence. A massive coincidence which put vessels and fallen angels all in the same place.

“It’s too bad, y’know,” he said to Ellen with a glance over. “Think I coulda liked you and your hubby. You know, for _hunters_.” He shook his head and tsked. “It’s aaaall gonna end badly, no matter if I’m around or not. But hey.” The Archangel shrugged. “Maybe I’ll drop by every now and then. I mean, I’ve got a stake in all this now, what with that stupid little brother of mine. Gotta keep an eye on him around the hunters.”

Maybe Castiel would eventually get a clue.

Ellen was listening, nodded firmly, glancing between the kitchen and the Roadhouse door. “Yeah, well, you tell Rufus not to go jumpin’ too high. Might be they’re just psychic or something. I’ll keep an eye out for ’em. Thanks for the warning, Bobby.”

She hung up, ran a hand through her hair, and took a deep breath. Gabriel smiled lazily, and there was something dark in it; something cutting, and sardonic, and bitter. “Oh yeah, this is gonna be _loads_ of fun.”


	19. But I hear the voices say

Bobby hung up his phone with a sigh, turning toward Rufus. “She said she’d keep an eye out,” he said with a shrug, shoving the brim of his hat back. “But she ain’t convinced they’re inhuman, Rufus. She’s met ’em both herself, and even though Gabriel’s a scary mofo maybe they really are just psychic.”

Rufus slammed his glass down on the kitchen table. “An _eye_ on them,” he snarled. “Bobby, Castiel’s on the side of the monsters! He had the chance to put down that ’shifter and he _didn’t_. I saw it myself.”

“You saw him walkin’ down the street in a hurry,” Bobby corrected. “I ain’t sayin’ they’re not dangerous, Rufus. Hell, you and I are _dangerous_. Maybe Castiel just messed up; I don’t know. But you’re gonna need a lot more proof than you’ve got if you wanna start listing potential helpers as nasties. ’Specially when they ain’t done anything _wrong_ that we can see.”

The dark-skinned hunter looked at him through narrowed eyes, his face set and tight. “Yeah sure, Bobby. Let’s just have ’em wander in and out of the only central place hunters have had in decades without doing a damn thing. How do we know they’re not doing surveillance on the Roadhouse? Planning to take it down? It’s the only place hunters have to spread information. Take out the Roadhouse and we’ll all go back to being lone wolves.”

Bobby opened his mouth to answer and then paused. It _was_ possible, he had to admit. Then again, there were other ways of getting that kind of information. “We’ve had hunters turn before, Rufus,” he said. “And a man can tell a lot under torture. If something supernatural wanted to get the low-down on the Roadhouse, they wouldn’t need to do anything so complicated as infiltrate.”

Rufus snorted and lifted his glass again, but his grip on it was tight. “If you say so, Bobby. But when the Roadhouse goes down, burned to the ground with a massacre inside, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

__

John knew and trusted Bill Harvelle about as well as any hunter could know and trust another. That didn’t stop the slow turn of anxiety in his gut. Before, he and Bill had always been equals, partners on a hunt; this time, it had suddenly occurred, Bill was going to be John’s _boss_. Frankly, John wasn’t sure how he was going to handle that. He’d been a Marine, sure, knew how to follow orders, but never with Bill.

He walked into the kitchen with his hands on Dean’s shoulder and Sam’s head, his back straight and stride stiff. Almost as soon as he’d taken in the kitchen’s surroundings he faltered and broke into a fierce, almost reluctant grin.

Bill was standing at the kitchen sink, still wearing a pastel blue-and-pink apron, up to his elbows in suds and with Jo on his shoulders. The girl was very carefully molding a foam crown on his hair.

“It’s tradic-tion,” Jo was informing him solemnly. “Hun’ers need a damsel ’n dis-dress. Otherwise they wouldn’ be hun’ers.”

“That’s true,” Bill agreed easily, unperturbed. “It’s a hunter’s job to protect people. Like it’s a cop’s job, or a soldier’s job.”

“Yep.” Jo nodded, smoothing down one portion of his hair and then leaning back a bit, with the sort of expertise of an inveterate shoulder-climber, to view the ‘crown’ critically. “Daddy, what’s a damsel?”

That was when Dean snorted into his hand, his shoulders shaking, and thus let the father-daughter pair know the Winchesters were there. The Harvelles turned suddenly, Bill instinctively reaching for one of the knives on the dry-rack before relaxing. Sammy was staring with an odd sort of fascination and Dean straightened up, mastering his amusement with what would have been excellent restraint if it weren’t for the tremble John could still feel in his shoulder.

John himself had dropped the smile easily and nodded a greeting at Bill, but didn’t try to conceal the twinkle in his eye either. “Bill. Nice to see you.”

“Was beginning to wonder when you’d show up,” Bill said back, reaching for a towel to dry off his hands. He didn’t grin, because Bill wasn’t a grinner, but there was a bit of a smile on his face. He nodded toward the Winchester boys. “Dean. Sam. Heard a lot about you. This little terror here’s Jo. She’s two.”

“You have a moose,” Jo said to Sam. It came out more like ‘you hab a mooth’. Sam nodded uncertainly, hiding half behind Mr Moose and half in-between his brother and father.

“He was a Christmas present,” he murmured.

“I sawed a moose once,” Jo said sanguinely, staring just as badly as Sam had been not long before, and apparently not the least bit concerned by the boy’s shyness. “He was _huge._ Huger than Daddy. I betcha if you caught ’n trained a moose no monster’d ever hurt ya.” She pursed her lips and tilted her head thoughtfully. “I need a moose,” she announced. “I need a moose to ride on so I can rescue damsels ’n dis-dress.”

“We’ll see what we can do about that, sweetheart,” Bill told her comfortably, reaching up to swing her over his shoulders and down to the floor, and throwing an amused glance at John as he did so. Jo made a face but submitted; when she hit the floor she stumbled and then caught herself, less graceful on the ground than on her father’s shoulders.

“Heard you might have hired another guy,” John said, urging his sons forward so they weren’t talking across the whole of the kitchen. Both of them went reluctantly, Dean because playing with girls even younger than Sammy wasn’t on his agenda and Sammy because he … well, wasn’t used to playing with people other than Dean, period. Jo didn’t show any such reservation, John noted with amusement; she put her hands on her hips, her feet apart but turned slightly inward, and pursed her lips at the Winchesters.

“Erryone’s too tall,” she grumbled, and then held out her hands to Dean, commanding: “Up.”

“Don’t be pushy, Jo,” Bill chastised her.

“Please,” she added, and pouted as if in afterthought. With a sidelong glance at John, as if to say ‘You have _got_ to be kidding’, Dean crouched and let her scramble onto his back.

“No fair!” Sam cried at once, and _his_ pout was entirely genuine. “I wanna ride!”

John opened his mouth and was about to step in before the impending argument started, but Bill, stripping off his apron, gripped his shoulder and shook his head. ‘Let’s see how this goes’, his expression said. Reluctantly John subsided, though truthfully he couldn’t have said who he wanted to protect—Sam or Jo.

“You’ve gotta moose!” Jo retorted, her chubby arms folding around Dean’s shoulders. The boy winced and jerked his head to the side to avoid losing the hearing in his ear. “Moose beats boy!”

“But I can’t _ride_ Mr Moose!” Sammy shot back, clutching the plush tightly. “He’s only a _baby_ moose! I’d squish him!”

Jo opened her mouth to answer and then stopped, closed it, and eyed Mr Moose critically. “You’re right,” she decided finally. “He’s only just as big as _you_. No way he can be a growned up moose. We’ll share.”

“He’s _my_ brother,” Sammy snapped, his little body almost trembling with indignation. “We can’t share my brother! He’s _mine_!”

“Then he’s my emp—emp—my bitch,” Jo shot back, “just like your Daddy works for my Daddy! That means you’ve both gotta do what I say!”

Bill blanched. John spluttered. Dean’s eyes went wide. Sammy frowned. “What’s a bitch?”

“Joanna Beth Harvelle!” Bill exclaimed, stepping forward and sweeping her off Dean’s shoulders. Jo yelped and her foot accidentally caught Dean in the ear; the boy clapped a hand to it and spun, still looking rather shocked. “ _Where_ did you learn language like that?!”

“The man with the kang’roo name, Daddy,” Jo said in a small voice, her shoulders hunching.

“The kangaroo name—?” John started, but Bill groaned and closed his eyes, shaking his head.

“Rufus. Ellen’s told him time and again to keep a muzzle on when he’s in here. He’s the only one she can’t get it into his head that there’s a _child_ in the Roadhouse.”

“Daddy!” Sammy tugged insistently on John’s shirt, his mouth set to a determined line. “Are you Mr Harvelle’s bitch? What _is_ a bitch?”

Mentally cursing Rufus Turner every way to Hell, John crouched so he was eye-to-eye with his youngest. “There’s different meanings, son,” he said. “The only good way to use it is when you’re talking about a female dog. They’re called bitches. But it’s also used—kind-of to call someone names, or to say that they have no power. Then it’s a bad word, Sammy.”

Sam’s brow was furrowed deep in thought, and John knew he was letting it all mull over, taking it in. Soon enough the frown depended into a scowl, and he glared at Jo. “I don’t like you. You were calling my daddy and brother a bad name!”

Now it was John’s turn to exclaim, and he took Sam’s chin, forcing the boy to turn away from Jo. Behind him, John heard Jo start to sniffle, then Bill’s voice as he murmured to his daughter and footsteps as the man put some distance between them. “Look at me, Sammy. Jo didn’t know, okay? She’s only littler than you, and you didn’t know either. We have to protect the people who are littler than us, Sammy.”

“But she was being mean,” Sam mumbled.

“She’s not like you and Dean, son,” John said, glancing up at Dean. The elder Winchester was hovering close by, chewing his lip and looking half as if he wanted to jump in to fix Sammy up himself. John gave him a reassuring smile and then looked back at Sammy, but this time he was addressing them both. “She doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, and she’s never had to share anything before. But we’re gonna be staying here for a while, so she’s gonna have to learn. That means you’re gonna have to teach her.”

“Dean could teach her,” Sammy said. “He’s a good teacher.”

The beam the broke across Dean’s face was sudden and quick, as the boy pulled a mask over it to hide how much the comment had meant. John ignored it. He had to, or risk his heart breaking again.

“You can both teach her, Sammy,” John said gently. “Like you’d teach a little sister. Okay?”

His son chewed his lip, hugging his moose plush close, and glanced toward the corner of the kitchen where Bill stood against the counter, talking softly to Jo. The little girl’s cheeks were wet and she was still sniffling, but it looked like she was on the tail-end of her tears, contrite and forlorn.

“Okay,” Sammy agreed.

John withheld the sigh of relief and smiled instead, reaching out to give Sam a hug. “That’s my boy. C’mon, let’s try this again.”

He rose and turned, and that was when he discovered Ellen was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with her arms crossed. She caught his eye and gave him a nod, but there was something in the furrow between her eyes which told John that phone call had been something worrying.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but I’ve got to talk to Bill. If you can keep an eye on Jo, Winchester, Cas should be done wrestling with the trash soon and he can do the dishes.”

“I can keep an eye on Sam and Jo,” Dean offered, and then looked vaguely startled by his own offer. John clapped a hand to the boy’s shoulder and squeezed it approvingly.

“No better guardian than Dean,” he said, and let the pride show in his voice. Dean blushed, his chin ducking for just a split second before he lifted it. “I’ll get started cleaning up.”

Ellen looked at Dean for a moment and then nodded. “Fine. Harvelle, get your butt back here.”

With that she turned and strode out into the hallway between the kitchen and the Roadhouse’s main room. Bill was already letting Jo down to the floor, making sure the girl was steady on her feet before straightening up.

“Go on, sweetie,” he said with a gentle nudge. “Daddy’ll be right back.” The man looked up at John. “At least with Cas as extra we’ll have someone to throw to the wolves,” he said wryly, and then turned to follow his wife.

Jo took a few steps in Sam’s direction, staring at the floor. “Daddy says I’m s’posed to say sorry, Mr Winchest’r,” she mumbled. “An’ sorry, Sammy.”

For a long moment Sam didn’t say anything at all, but then, finally, he blurted, “You really don’t have any _brothers_?” Startled, Jo looked up and then shook her head, her pigtails flying. Sammy huffed and put his hands on his hips as best as he could with Mr Moose still under one arm. “Well, that’s stupid. I dunno what I’d do without _Dean_. We’ll just have to be your brothers instead.”

It was, John thought, a better ending to a bad start than he could have hoped for.

 

Castiel, one of the few among his siblings, knew what true exhaustion felt like. There was that exhaustion of the mind, yes, but there was also exhaustion of the body, and angels weren’t particularly susceptible to either. The odd thing about it, he’d always thought, was how one didn’t necessarily have to be present for the other to rear its head, but the times when they both lingered were the worst.

One thing with which Castiel was _not_ familiar was plain manual labor, mostly because it wasn’t necessary for him to perform it. In this case, however, he could hardly clean the trash-cans and scraps and everything else with just a wave of his hand without drawing attention, and in the Roadhouse of all places that would have been suicide. Or as close to it as he could come without one of his brothers being involved.

Which meant that, when Ellen told him to clear out the trash, he had to take all the cans, one by one, to the dumpster out back and empty them all. One by one. He’d have done them all by Grace, except that he was in view of the parking-lot and there were too many people leaving for him to risk it.

It was dirty. Stinky. Utterly undignified.

He felt better than he had in weeks.

The angel heard voices in the kitchen as he lugged the trash-cans back toward the door, but couldn’t catch the words, and the rustle of the bags as he replaced them was enough to keep him from recognizing the one that wasn’t Bill’s. Ellen had mentioned that they were hiring a guy; this must be him.

In the end, it wasn’t all that long before Castiel moved into the kitchen. He’d been expecting to see someone new. Instead the angel stopped short on the doorstep, a trash-can still in hand, and stared at the broad back of the man standing at one of the sinks. Jo and Sam Winchester were seated on the counter beside the other, splashing each other and making soap-bubble monsters which, for reasons beyond Castiel, Sam’s moose-plush seemed to be defeating. Dean stood on a stool beside his father, keeping one eye on his younger brother.

Castiel stood frozen in the doorway. Was he seeing things? He must be seeing things. Gabriel must have followed him, must be _making_ him see things. It was the only way to explain—

Jo, shrieking with delight, scrambled away from Sam and his moose and in the process spotted Castiel. “Cassy!” she squealed, lifting her arms to him. “Save me from Sammy’s evil moose!”

Automatically Castiel stepped toward her and then realized he was still holding the trash-can. The angel looked down at it, his expression approaching both baffled and frazzled. “I, uh …”

“I know you.”

The angel looked up again, and this time it was to find John Winchester watching him. The hunter had taken a step toward him, one soap-sudded hand still on the edge of the sink. His voice was deep, rough as it had been for years, but Castiel was struck at once by how he _looked_. Inside _and_ out. He was still careworn, still with too many lines in such a short time, but there was something near to peace in his eyes and soul—something that was approaching it, would turn into it, if given the chance. And there was recognition there.

“I know you,” John repeated, and then chuckled quietly, half in disbelief, as he shook his head. “I’ll be damned.”

“I hope not,” Castiel said automatically, and the sound of his own voice made the angel snap out of his reverie. He looked down, cleared his throat, carried the trash-can inside and set it down in the corner where it was meant to go. He remained leaned over it, situating it carefully, so as to avoid having to look up at any of the others in the room.

“Who is he, Daddy?” Sammy asked, curiosity in his voice, and Castiel managed not to flinch. He wasn’t sure why he should have the urge—whether it would be because of the lack of recognition, or the youthful hope, or the fact that Sammy didn’t know him.

Or just the fact that it was Sam. Sam, whom Castiel had rendered insane for the sake of keeping the Winchesters out of the fight.

“He’s an acquaintance, Sammy,” John said. “I met him once on a job a couple of months ago. Didn’t even get his name.”

“It’s Cast’el,” Jo announced with that smug overtone of a child proud they knew something a grownup didn’t. Then there was a pause, and Castiel imagined she was making a face to accompany the swirl of resigned irritation. “Cassy.”

“Cassie?” Dean repeated, and there was mixed disbelief and mirth in his tone.

“What's wrong with Cassy?” Jo was pouting. Castiel could hear it. “I _like_ the name Cassy.”

“But it’s a _girl’s_ name. He’s not a girl.”

“I don’t mind,” Castiel interrupted softly, surprising himself as much as anyone else, and then realized he was—there was no other phrase for it— _fussing_ with the trash-can. Clearing his throat, the angel straightened and turned to find Dean eyeing him warily.

If he’d been less powerful, lost more of his Grace, or simply didn’t know Dean as well as he did, Castiel would have believed the little Winchester didn’t trust him. Well, it was true. Just not complete. As it was, the angel looked steadily back at him and answered the unspoken question in his soul. “I’m not a homosexual either, Dean, although liking conventions traditionally associated with women and being homosexual aren’t the same thing. H—people … place too much emphasis on categories.”

Dean looked startled, then blushed, then narrowed his eyes, and finally looked away with a shrug and a huff, for once very much the child he had played as an adult instead of the adult he played as a child. “Whatever.”

John Winchester was still chuckling, and he placed a damp hand on Dean’s shoulder. The boy huffed again as his shirt grew sodden, but it was an affected thing, and he didn’t object to the contact.

“Well then, Cas, I know I thanked you for helping me out that time,” he said, “but thanks again. I don’t know what might’ve happened if you hadn’t stepped in when you did, and as you can see, I’ve got reason to not have anything happen to me.”

Castiel just barely managed to keep his emotions from his face by rising up out of his vessel. Cas. First the son, then the brother, now the father.

“I said you were welcome,” the angel told him evenly, and was pleased when it actually came out even. “There’s no need to thank me again.”

John was silent for a moment, studying him. Then he shrugged. “Maybe not. But when you’ve got something to live for you … try not to take it too lightly.”

This couldn’t truly be the same man who had dragged his sons all over the country, too afraid to even try and settle down somewhere with precautions. This couldn’t possibly be the same man, and yet his soul said it was. Castiel had allowed Mary to speak to him in a dream for Mary’s sake, had hoped for some response in John himself, but somehow the angel had never imagined the effect it might actually have.

“A wise man doesn’t,” he agreed, and then, suddenly desperate for some space, gestured behind him. “I have to get the other trash-cans.”

“Sure thing,” John said, and gave Dean’s hair a flick. “When you come back in, I’ll introduce us properly instead of starin’ like fish. Looks like we’ll be workin’ together, so I hope you don’t mind kids.”

Working together. This really was the man Ellen had been referring to when she said that Bill had hired someone. All at once the tightness in Castiel’s chest bloomed into a weird, wild sort of warmth. He wasn’t quite aware of it, but something in Jimmy’s face softened.

“I enjoy children,” he said honestly, almost quietly, and with something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’ll be back.”

He turned on his heel and left the kitchen to finish the job Bill had assigned him. For the first time since … since probably that moment he’d walked into Raphael’s Heaven and rejected the Archangel’s threat, Castiel’s stride was firm and purposeful. And for the first time since long before that, he felt as if he was actually doing something _right_.

 

“He says they’re _what_?” Bill Harvelle stared at his wife, unable to keep the consternation out of his face and voice, and glad that the Roadhouse was all but empty. Even still, they had to keep their voices lowered and their backs turned to avoid drawing the attention of those one or two still lingering.

Ellen ran a hand through her thick hair and shrugged. “He couldn’t tell exactly what they were, except that Gabriel’s a scary mofo and they’ve got some kind of skills. Psychic, maybe—it’s the only thing we could agree on. Rufus thinks they’re somethin’ more than that, though. Something not exactly human.”

Despite himself Bill snorted. “Rufus Turner,” he growled, “has as much restraint as a billy in rutting season. Do you know what kind of language he’s been using in front of Jo?”

“Tell me about it later and I’ll bring out the whip next time he comes by,” Ellen promised, but with an edge of impatience. “C’mon, Harvelle, if Castiel and his brother are bad news what are we going to do?”

There was a helplessness in her eyes, a frustration, a self-condemnation that made Bill check himself and step forward to wrap his arms around her. “It’s not your fault for offering him a job,” he said. “I’ve been working with him in the back and he didn’t strike me as bad either. A little odd, but not evil.”

“If he’s psychic, he could be impressing this on us and we might not know,” Ellen pointed out as she leaned into him, her hands on his shoulders and resting her head in the crook of his neck.

“If he was psychic, he’d already know what we were thinking and have left,” Bill countered, and tilted his head pointedly. For several moments they stood there in silence and listened to the sound of muffled voices coming from the kitchen. Three young voices and two adult ones.

“Still here,” Ellen murmured, and hesitated. “Bill, I … don't think I was wrong. He’s got that look. Needs the help. And the way he and his brother talked …”

“I met Gabriel too, remember,” Bill reminded her softly. “And he had the look. Except he’s taken it in a different direction. Turned it into something else. I don’t think you’re wrong about Castiel either.”

“But can we take that risk with Jo?” Ellen asked without lifting her head. Bill debated.

“We built the Roadhouse as a haven,” he said finally, “unless something’s changed while I haven’t been looking.”

“Not on my account.”

Bill nodded firmly. “Then I say we should keep doing what we’re doing. If they’re genuine, Cas needs the help, and maybe his brother too. If they’re not, I’d rather have ’em here and under our thumb, where we can figure out what they might be up to, instead of have them out _there_ doing God-knows-what in the meantime.”

It was an entirely practical consideration. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. That was why the Harvelles didn’t ban certain hunters from the Roadhouse, no matter how much bad news they might be. If they came in, the Harvelles could keep track of them—for their own sakes, and for everyone else’s.

“What about Winchester?” That was a harder one, and Bill didn’t answer for so long that eventually Ellen shifted, nudging his neck with her chin. “You’re worried if he finds out a potential hunt’s right here in our den, he might take his boys and go all over again.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Bill said softly, something that was almost a plea. Tell him he was wrong about Winchester’s hair-trigger, about his paranoia, about his inability to sit still.

Ellen shook her head. “I can’t. And I can’t imagine what it’d do to those boys if he took ’em again, so close to being able to settle down.”

“So we’re not telling Winchester?”

“We’re not telling Winchester,” Ellen said, firm in her own turn. She nuzzled her husband’s neck. “When did runnin’ a Roadhouse get so complicated?”

Bill chuckled softly, rueful and amused and resigned. “When it became a hunters’ haunt. Thank you, Mrs Harvelle.”

He turned his head to kiss her. With a mischievous smile Ellen turned hers to meet him. “Thankin’ _you_ , Mr Harvelle.”

For that moment, if not in the future, there was peace.

 

Dean watched as Sam and Jo played in the rapidly disappearing soapsuds, trying to ignore the jealousy that panged in his chest. Dean _had_ been playing with his brother and Jo. Keeping watch. Making sure. Now, though, he had to be apart for a little while. It felt as if everything had changed all at once, and even though Dean had felt exhilarated at first the bad feelings were creeping back.

 _This is good for Sammy,_ he told himself. _Good to be able to play with someone his age.  And good that Dad’s here too._

Because he was. Steadily doing the dishes with a sort of casual ease Dean had always envied, occasionally flicking one of the two kids with bubbles. Every now and then Cas—Dean refused to call him _Cassie_ —would come back with more dishes. At first he didn’t really talk much, head down and focussed on his work with a weird sort of concentration. Then Dad started asking him questions—the casual kind, the ones that didn’t seem like an interrogation but were.

Cas, Dean grudgingly had to admit, knew it too—every time he looked up to answer there was a light of awareness in his eyes. Yet he never tried to avoid a response. Guardedly, sometimes, but always willingly. Once he glanced over at Dean and caught his eyes, and Dean had set his jaw to meet the gaze. Cas had the bluest eyes Dean had ever seen. Like the sky: distant, in a way that made you feel small.

The boy had felt accomplished, like he’d passed some kind of test, when Cas looked away first.

He still felt unsettled.

 _It’s all okay now,_ said a little inner voice. _But for how long? Look at how happy Sammy is. What happens when we have to move on again?_

 _We won’t,_ Dean told himself firmly, but he was disturbed to find it wasn’t as firmly as he would have liked. _Dad’s never said we’ll settle down anywhere before. It’s different._

 _Maybe,_ said the voice. _But can you trust it?_

Without realizing it, Dean set his jaw. _It’s Dad. Of course I can trust Dad. Stop talking to yourself, you idiot._

 _But,_ the voice whispered, _can you trust Dad with_ Sammy _?_

To that, Dean had no answer he could give without lying, and he couldn’t afford to lie where Sammy was concerned. It was too important to get things _right_. Because Dad hadn’t been there. Dad didn’t know Sammy’s favourite cereal. Dad didn’t know how to get Sammy to fall asleep. Dad didn’t know how to make Sammy stop whining.

Instead the boy was left watching his family and his new ‘home’ without speaking, fists half clenched and body tingling with guilt and uncertainty and apprehension. 

Leaning back against the far wall, Gabriel stood, silent and invisible and watching the slow sprout of the doubt he’d planted in Dean’s soul.

 

_(end of Arc One)_


End file.
